Even though we were about to start the most dangerous crossing in Southern
California, we were breaking our own rules by disregarding the weather
forecast and launching late, which was going to put us in the middle
of the 26 NM channel during the afternoon winds. Never before had I
been so scared about crossing.
My sea kayaking partner, Jim Gabriel, and I never intended to launch
from Gaviota State Beach on the mainland as late at 9:45 a.m. But when
it comes to the business of crossing channels by sea kayak, weather
dictates. We were already delayed one day by thirty to thirty-five-knot
winds, eight to ten-foot swells and six-foot wind waves. The National
Weather Service seemed to have trouble predicting when the high pressure
system creating this havoc was going to dissipate. At first, ten-knot
winds were forecasted for the next day, and then overnight it was changed
to fifteen to twenty knots.
Winds of fifteen to twenty knots may be fine for coastal
paddling but not for a crossing as long and unpredictable as ours. We
called the crossing off for a second day. Or so we thought. That morning
the calm in our campsite, famous for strong winds, didn't match the
forecast. On my VHF marine radio with a weather band, we periodically
listened to the report from the weather buoy in the middle of the channel.
Over the morning the winds subsided from twenty-two, to fourteen, to
twelve, and finally to ten knots. Based on the report from this single
buoy and our instincts, we felt the National Weather Service, despite
its various scientific methods, over predicted the strength of the winds
for the rest of the day. We scrambled to break camp.
When we launched through the surf late that Sunday morning, September
17, 2000, we couldn't see our destination. San Miguel Island was somewhere
out there behind the haze. It wasn't long before the oil rig Heritage,
7 NM off the coast and just 1 NM off our course, came into view. Using
the oil rig in front of us and the mountains at Gaviota behind us as
a natural range, I checked for drift. Like usual in this area, the ocean
current was going up the coast. We ferried thirty degrees to the left
to stay on course.
By noon the oil rig and us were enveloped in fog. While
we could still hear the fog horn from the oil rig, I did a final weather
check. The latest forecast was the same, fifteen to twenty-knot winds,
but the buoy was still reporting ten knots. Despite the fog and forecast,
we committed ourselves to the crossing.
For over six hours we had only one to three hundred yards
of visibility in the fog. Every hour Jim turned on his GPS to get the
bearing and distance to San Miguel Island. Based on this information,
I guessed the ferry angles and steered with my compass. Normally, we
would've rotated navigational duties, but Jim had a waterproof video
camera mounted on the front deck of his kayak, and the electronics interfered
with the magnetic field.
Halfway across the channel, the bearing that Jim called
out indicated we were now drifting in the opposite direction. I dipped
my hand over the side, and sure enough, the water was colder. We had
reached the ocean current that was farther offshore and heading down
the coast. Now we ferried thirty to fifty degrees to the right to stay
on course.
The fog complicated matters in the shipping lanes. We
hoped any ships would be giving the required long blast with the horn
every two minutes. In case one wasn't blasting the horn, we listened
carefully for engine noise. We also watched 360 degrees in the small
radius we could see in the fog and hoped we wouldn't see a huge steel
bow coming at us. Fortunately, we didn't encounter any traffic.
The worst problem with the fog was psychological. I had
to keep reminding myself that San Miguel Island was looming somewhere
in front of us. Also, instead of the bright Southern California sunshine
we were so used to, there was gloom all afternoon long.
The forecasted swells were eight feet. They looked more
like ten feet. Coming from our right, the swells appeared like walls
as they emerged from the fog. I couldn't help but wonder what kind of
mess even just twenty-knot winds would make out of the large swells.
Despite the calm conditions we were having, I wasn't able to relax.
I knew the conditions could easily and quickly become rough. I kept
wondering why the National Weather Service stayed with the forecast
of fifteen to twenty-knot winds. What did it know that I didn't? It
was a mistake to disregard the forecast. This channel deserved a lot
more respect than that.
At 5:00 p.m. the winds increased to around fifteen knots.
The water became choppy and waves occasionally washed over our decks.
We still hadn't seen San Miguel Island through the fog yet. The sun
was getting closer to the horizon. With the decreasing air temperature
and frequent splashing of water, I became cold and put my paddle jacket
on. Jim was working so hard to keep his kayak going straight that he
didn't need his paddle jacket to stay warm. His kayak had an adjustable
skeg, but no matter how he adjusted it, the kayak kept getting turned
to the left by the large swells coming from the right. I had it easier
with my rudder deployed.
We didn't see San Miguel Island until 6:45 p.m. We popped outof the
fog and there it was. It must have been visible for more than a minute
before we noticed it spread out before us. After nine hours of paddling,
it was a beautiful sight. We could see all of Cuyler Harbor and also
the west end of Santa Rosa Island, where we were crossing to tomorrow.
Having been denied sight of the islands for so long, we savored the
beauty of them while we still had what little sunlight was left.
Harris Point as we were paddling into Cuyler Harbor,
San Miguel Island, at sunset. Note the thick fog to the right.
We landed on a sandy beach just as it became dark at 7:45 p.m. With
the sun down, the fog dissipated, and the night became unbelievably
clear. Our campsite, atop a hill, was a great vantage point. The lights
shined beautifully at the oil rig Heritage that we passed by during
the crossing. We could even see the lights on the pier at Gaviota State
Beach across the channel. With the clearness and lights, the channel
seemed deceptively small.
San Miguel to Santa Rosa
After setting camp in the dark, we weren't about to break it in the
dark also, so we didn't launch on Monday until 8:45 a.m. Once again,
we had fog. Visibility was two hundred yards at best. We didn't even
see Prince Island in Cuyler Harbor as we left San Miguel Island and
headed for Santa Rosa Island.
The previous night Jim mentioned that his left forearm was sore from
all of the corrective strokes he had to take. This morning he had his
forearm and wrist wrapped in duct tape for support and took ibuprofen.
When we began paddling, he said he wasn't experiencing any pain. It's
amazing what a little duct tape and ibuprofen can do. I had my own injury
to worry about. During this 20 NM day, I was experiencing left shoulder
pain.
Every hour Jim turned on his GPS to get the bearing and distance to
Carrington Point at Santa Rosa Island. I used my compass to steer. We
ferried into the current going through the 3 NM passage between San
Miguel and Santa Rosa. Along the north coast of Santa Rosa, we stayed
well clear of the shoals and reefs. It was depressing having the fog
hide the north coast from our view. All we could do was listen to the
surf crashing on the island.
As we rounded Carrington Point, we came into Becher's
Bay, which was clear from the fog. After being in the fog for so long,
it was uplifting to see the shore and be in sunshine. But we couldn't
relax yet. Gusts of around twenty knots were coming down the cliffs
that lined the bay. With everywhere else so calm, I was surprised to
be hit by the gusts. I would hate to image the strength of the gusts
coming down from the cliffs on even a moderately windy day.
About halfway down the bay, Jim and I landed safely through
three to five-foot dumping surf on a sandy beach at 2:30 p.m. Jim stayed
with the kayaks while I looked for the campsite. When I came back, I
told Jim that we should paddle our kayaks one hundred yards up the beach
to make carrying the gear to the campsite easier. Jim said his forearm
was too sore to launch and land again. I didn't realize until then how
serious his injury had become. He took more ibuprofen for his forearm,
and I took some for my shoulder. Our injuries were beginning to make
me wonder if we were going to be able to finish this trip.
Santa Rosa to Santa Cruz
When the alarm sounded on my wrist watch at 4:30 a.m. on Tuesday, thinking
about the long 29 NM day that laid ahead was almost unbearable. We broke
camp and were ready to launch at 6:00 a.m., but it was still dark and
there was still three to five-foot surf dumping on the beach. With the
darkness we couldn't see the sets coming in to time our launch between
the larger waves. Jim wanted to go for it, but I wanted to wait until
we had some light to reduce the chance of getting tossed backwards on
the beach. Fifteen minutes later it was still dark and I was tired of
waiting, so we went for it. Both of us launched without getting wet.
Our visibility on this day was good. Two miles was a lot better than
one to three hundred yards. But we still didn't see Santa Cruz Island
for a few hours. Jim turned on his GPS every hour and called out the
distance and bearing to the west end of the island. I used my compass
to steer. A direct crossing from Santa Rosa to Santa Cruz would've been
7 NM, but we took an indirect route of around 9 NM to avoid the area
of turbulent water that extends 2 NM from the west end of Santa Cruz.
This turbulent water is famous among local mariners and is know as the
Potato Patch. It is caused by converging swells and currents, and overfalls
occur there even on calm days. We ferried into the current to avoid
being drawn into the mess.
Jim had his wrist and forearm wrapped in duct tape again
and was still on ibuprofen. Again, he said his forearm didn't hurt while
paddling. It was only in camp that it really hurt, but it was obvious
that paddling was making it worse.
My shoulder pain was gone, but now I had left forearm pain. On the water,
I wrapped my wrist and forearm with duct tape, but I wrapped it too
loosely and the tape became even looser when it became wet, so it didn't
give me any support. I ended up adjusting my paddle stroke by keeping
my wrist straighter and opening my fingers more as I pushed. The pain
was gone in a couple of hours and never came back.
Jim talking to sailors at the west end of
Santa Cruz Island.
Along the first half of the north side of Santa Cruz Island, we were
able to see the coast and still had calm conditions. There were dozens
of sea caves along the way. One of these caves was the famous Painted
Cave, which is the largest sea cave in the world. Because this trip
was about crossings, we didn't expend any time and energy to locate
and explore the cave.
During most of the second half of the north side of Santa
Cruz Island, we felt like we were on another crossing. We were paddling
point to point, and the coast was over three miles away in the area
of Prisoners and Chinese Harbors. With two miles of visibility, we didn't
see land most of the way. The winds had increased to around fifteen
knots. We had following seas that were moderate at worst, but they still
made paddling tedious. Jim's kayak was broaching, so he had to take
a lot of corrective strokes. With my rudder I didn't have to work as
hard as him.
We landed at Scorpion Ranch, the only authorized campsite on Santa
Cruz Island, at 3:15 p.m. Both of us were fatigued, and Jim's forearm
was swollen. For the day after next we had planned to cross 37 NM from
Anacapa Island to Santa Barbara Island. Then in the following days,
we would have to paddle 28 NM, including a 22 NM crossing, to Two Harbors
on Catalina Island and another 19 NM to the mainland. I felt too fatigued
for the 37 NM crossing. Jim said that with his forearm injured, he didn't
think he could perform a rescue. Santa Barbara Island would have to
wait until next year.
Santa Cruz to Anacapa and Oxnard
We slept in Wednesday morning and launched for Anacapa Island at 8:45
a.m. With ten miles of visibility, we were able to navigate without
a GPS or compass for the first time on the trip. Including a 4 NM passage,
we paddled the 8 NM to Frenchy's Cove on Anacapa by 11:00 a.m. We landed
and had lunch there. Our plans were to camp overnight on the island,
but with the weather so unusually calm, we decided to cross 13 NM to
Channel Islands Harbor on the mainland that afternoon. We launched at
11:35 a.m. and were safely in the harbor by 3:20 p.m.
Jim leaving Frenchy's Cove at Anacapa Island for
the crossing
back to the mainland.
