The stiff winds that I'd tried to ignore for the past couple of days were making their presence known. We were now practically on the coast, heading directly south-east, with an increasing amount of long, straight stretches of river. Still, under different circumstances this section of river would have been nice. As you near the coast and the Guadalupe River delta, the river takes on a whole new appearance. The environment is much more green and tropical, with palms and low, grassy banks. I'd heard that some racers really enjoy this section because it's such a new world compared with the rest of the Guad. I agree, it was a beautiful section.
The long hours of lonely, empty river were behind us. After Salt Water Barrier there's a row of houses along the East side of the river that stretches for 3 or 4 miles. I was steering us very near to this shoreline, dodging docks and over-hanging branches in a desperate attempt to escape the wind. This was mostly unsuccessful. We continued to slog along, into the wind, with neither of us being very thrilled about having to cover 10 miles before the bay. At some point, the tandem unlimited boat that we'd seen on day 3 passed us. I think they said some thing encouraging. We made no attempt at speeding up.
Before too long, we heard Ed and Dan yelling from the bank on river right. They had found a spot to pull over on the way to Wooden Bridge and had stopped to yell and snap photos. Ed cracked some jokes and told us “one more mile”, or some thing like that. Matt was getting annoyed. Further along, a woman cheered us on from her porch. “You guys look pretty good.” “Really? We feel like shit.” “Most of the other paddlers I've seen look exhausted.” This was not the first time we'd heard this. Crews and race officials know that their suppose to tell racers how good they look, regardless of how much of a lie this might be. It's encouraging. More than once along the course I'd had this similar conversation with people. Looking back, I know that some of it was encouragement, but I suspect some of it was due to our pace. Sure, we were paddling a slow, heavy, bitch of a canoe. However, we were rarely ever pushing ourselves. We had likely prepared ourselves much more than the paddlers that struggle just to come in under the cut-off and we weren't pushing the type of pace that the more competitive boats are holding. True or not, I do believe that we both had plenty left in us as we slogged towards the bay.
Soon enough, we'd left the houses behind and were back to empty river...and wind...and Ed. The guys were popping up often now, at every single accessible clearing. “One more mile”, followed by more jokes from Ed. Matt was getting increasingly annoyed, at both Ed and the miles we had left to cover. I began to suspect that Zoltan's crew captain had instructed Ed and Dan to show up at all of these stops and spur us on. I don't think I was bothered by it, but I wanted to get to Wooden Bridge just as bad as Matt. I believe the distance from Salt Water Barrier to Wooden Bridge is about 8 miles. At our slog, we probably took 2 hours to cover this. It certainly felt like it at the time.
The wind was really blasting into us now. The closer we got to Wooden Bridge, the straighter the river got, resulting in an unobstructed wind tunnel. I do NOT like paddling aluminum canoes into the wind and was becoming more pissed about the situation. Seeing Traylor Cut (an optional cut that diverges from the main river and enters the northern end of the bay) and our last little stretch of river before Wooden Bridge did nothing to lighten my mood. I had been hallucinating a bit along this last stretch as I was always looking ahead for the “check point”. Several times I thought that I could see a bridge (or some thing) in the distance, only to find out that it was just an optical illusion. A quick scan on Google Earth in fact shows a bridge just before that last unofficial check point. I have absolutely no memory of this.
Bridge or no bridge, we had arrived. There was a very small boat ramp on the river and some sort of house or garage or some thing. We pulled up and started rummaging through gear. Over the last couple of hours I encouraged Matt to eat lots of food. I had heard racers say that you really want to fuel up before the bay. It makes sense, as most teams will cross fast enough to not bother with food. We would not be crossing so fast, but with a full spray skirt on we wouldn't have much chance to access food even if we brought it. Unfortunately for me, I had run out of food. As I mentioned WAY back in my earlier posts, I had all of our food organized into freezer bags and labeled based on mileage, such as “Eric: 0-60”. We had way too much food and we knew this. With no real idea of how long it would take to finish the race, we preferred to be prepared. To dump weight, I had been throwing out food along the way at checkpoints. At 60 miles, if there was nothing in that bag that looked absolutely delicious, I tossed the bag to Ed and told him it was trash. I continued with this process all the way down the course and I think it worked well, except that I'd made a mistake some where. My last bag of food ran empty and I had to pinch some of Matt's supply. I did make an attempt at fueling up for the bay, but there wasn't much to fuel up with. Matt ate very little, if any thing.
Our stop at Wooden Bridge was a frustrating experience. The plan was to pull up, toss every thing out except for safety gear and water, then strap on our home made spray skirt. I don't know how this took so long. The canoe was a mess and was holding a good bit of water that we should have dumped, but didn't. Ed and Dan were arguing, Matt was bitching at them and playing with gear. I was getting more and more anxious and annoyed. I shoveled down as much food as I could, but was not hungry enough to fill up on peanuts.
Finally, we started attaching the spray skirt...and hit a snag. When we made the skirt we hadn't considered the GoPro camera that was mounted up on the bow. Matt wanted to unbolt it to re-arrange things...which would have taken a good amount of time. I almost blew up at this suggestion. “Fuck the camera! Get rid of that damn thing!” I was way over-anxious about wasting more time and was fixated on finishing before dark. Matt was very attached to the camera, but was calm enough to not fuel the argument. Every one tried to calm me down and Matt offered to toss the camera. I closed my mouth and we took a minute to assess things. Finally, one of us had the idea to cut a slot in the spray skirt so the camera could fit through, then duct tape around it to seal. This was a good idea that took very little time. After the fact, I was very thankful that Matt and the crew stayed calm during my episode. Many teams have huge fights some where along the course over one issue or another. Until that point, we hadn't even come close to a real fight. The guys were right, this close to the bay and the finish we needed to stay calm. It was almost over.
Unfortunately, the rest of the process was not entirely smooth either. When we made the skirt, my dad got into a rush and cut too much off of the starboard side. It still fit, but you really had to stretch it tight to get that side attached to the velcro. The other hassle was strapping Matt in. Spray skirts are designed to completely cover the canoe, meaning there can be NO openings. Paddlers are basically sealed in by a section of skirt that comes up and wraps around your chest. The nice, high quality skirts have a draw string, so you can open and close this piece. Our skirt did not. Matt climbed into his seat, through the hole, pulled the skirt up around his chest, then put his life jacket on over it. Mostly, this was just uncomfortable for him, but it also meant that he was locked in until the finish. The skirt ran all the way back to the stern and stopped about 1 foot from my seat. After strapping Matt in, I'd have to take care of any thing that involved getting out. My first task was launching the canoe. We had pulled up pretty far onto the ramp and did not think about pushing the canoe back BEFORE strapping on the skirt. I have no memory of how I launched that tank. I'm sure it was a rough, time consuming, frustrating procedure.
Back on the river for one last paddle. Maybe I should have recognized nostalgia in the making and savored the moment. Instead, I mostly wallowed in thoughts about how tired and annoyed I was...maybe even pissed off. This was a very depressing realization. Only 1 day earlier I couldn't have been more ecstatic about where I was and what I was doing. The idea of finishing this race had me riding a huge high all the way through the Prelim section. THAT is one part of the race I will never forget. It was amazing. Now, maybe 7miles from the finish,was I in such a shitty low that I wouldn't even enjoy a finish that we had been obsessing over for months? Wow, I really hoped not.
“Oh shit! We don't have a light!” Not 5 or 10 minutes from Wooden Bridge we clicked on to the fact that, once again, we had forgotten some thing important. This time, it was a light. Obviously, we had ditched our heavy, bow mounted Maglite at Wooden Bridge. The problem, however, was that we were suppose to bring a head lamp. TWS rules require a white light for the bay crossing. Now, we didn't have one...and we were NOT turning around. We quickly developed a strategy: if we could finish before dark, no one would notice the lack of light. If anyone asked, we tell them we lost the head lamp in the bay. That was our improvised plan. Back to the river.
This 1-2 mile stretch of the Guad is very narrow and very odd. It has that same green, lush, tropical look, but it's so small you feel like you're paddling down the bayou. I don't remember saying much here. I think Matt knew I was in a shitty mood and tried to encourage me a bit. Nothing was going to bring me out of that funk. I was a bit like a sleepy, cranky child. I needed a nap and I wasn't going to get one any time soon. Mean while, paddling along the last mile of river, I was trying to look over the southern bank or any where I could to get some glimpse of the bay. It was windy and I was now thinking about the reality of what would be out there. Despite our rough paddle in Copano Bay, I don't think that Matt knew what to expect from this bay crossing. He seemed ready to cruise through this last leg.
The mouth of the Guadalupe River: http://www.panoramio.com/photo/12264308
I'd read Safari stories about rough bays, where paddlers were hit by big waves before even exiting the river mouth. As we paddled up, there were no big rollers...which initially gave me hope. The Guadalupe empties into what I would call the north-east arm of San Antonio bay. This section of the bay runs north-west to south-east and is any where from 0.5 to 1 mile wide. East from the river mouth is a dredge spoil island that protects the Victoria barge canal. If you were to paddle directly east from the river mouth (about 0.5 miles) you'd hit the dredge spoil island, then paddle roughly 3.5 miles along this, south-east, before coming to the end. At this point you basically enter the open waters of San Antonio Bay. Seadrift is on the northern shore though, so you would then turn east around the point, paddle across the barge canal (which is deep, with larger waves) and follow the northern shoreline until you see the finish. Paddling directly across to the dredge spoil island is known as taking the “chicken route”, because you're essentially making a mad dash through the waves to shallow, protected water. It's slower, but safer. Being the awesomely experienced salt water guy that I knew I was (haha), I had determined to paddle directly to the deepest water and stay there. No chicken route for us.
The first word that comes to mind in trying to describe my initial bay impression is “surreal”. Imagine this: you've been on a river for 80 hours. Yes, the majority of that time has been spent in isolation, paddling through the middle of no where. However, it's a river. It's relatively narrow, it flows in one direction, there's rarely ever a question of where to go, there are check points, with officials and people. Up to this instant, the race feels very guided, in a way. Now, you're cut loose in open water that you've never seen. It would be similar to hiking through a dense, wooded trail for 3.5 days, when suddenly the woods and trail end and you stumble out into an open, rolling prairie. “Now where the hell do I go!?” Surreal. Of course, I knew roughly where we were suppose to go, but in my sleep-deprived state, the surreal feeling of this was almost over-whelming. Were we still in a race? Is this still the Safari? I'm almost not sure any more.
So, back to that plan of NOT taking the chicken route. This plan held for maybe the first 10-15 minutes. I steered us out into the middle of the arm and then turned south-east. The wind was blasting. Weather data says 18 mph with 24 mph gusts. This sounds about right. In Safari terms, this is probably considered a “moderate” to possibly “bad” bay. It can get worse (30+ mph winds), but these conditions are already beyond the fun point for an aluminum. It didn't take me long to figure out that this was not working. We were paddling into a wall of wind and it felt like we weren't even moving. “You have to paddle harder!” Matt was still locked into his Safari cruise stroke, which is not nearly hard enough to move an aluminum through those conditions. He was not happy about me cracking the whip and I was not happy about having to deal with this shit at the end of the race. “Fuck it”, I thought to myself, “I've had enough”. I'm not sure what that meant, even in my head, because there was no where to “quit”, unless we paddled back to Wooden Bridge. Never the less, in my head, I was done. Too tired. This was suppose to be an easy 12 hours to the finish. This is bull shit. We're not even moving. This is not possible. Do I even care any more?
I'm not sure how long I went back and forth with myself. I never said any thing to Matt. I was still pissed off, and tired, and beaten. And then, some thing clicked. We had paddled maybe 0.5 miles and were next to a tiny little island. Maybe I saw the island and could see that we were actually moving...slowly. “We need to turn right and head back to the western shoreline. It will be shallow there, but it should be at least a little protected from the wind.” Before the race, I spent some time studying charts of San Antonio Bay and Google Earth. There wasn't much to study, but I did have a good mental image of the bay. A few weeks before the race we had also sat down with Roy and gone over some routes. Now, I was running these images through my head, thinking about where we could get the most wind protection and where we could cross over to the eastern shore. There was a small point that projected out, about 1.25 miles from where we were. We could paddle along the shoreline, partially protected from the wind, and then cross over at this point.
I was getting excited now. We hit the western shore and it was immediately obvious that conditions were calmer here. Yes, we were moving very slowly, but we were moving. “You have to paddle harder!” This is some thing I would repeatedly yell through the wind over the next 3 hours. Matt was not happy with me, but there was nothing to be done about it. We had spent the entire Safari paddling at a cruise, and now, we absolutely had to paddle at a strong pace. It was a struggle for Matt, I know, this late into the race to paddle this hard, but there are no other options. In a rough bay, some teams will pull over and camp out some where, waiting for calmer conditions. This was not going to happen.
We continued south-east along the shoreline, occasionally arguing about the pace I was driving for. It didn't matter though, because I was waking up again. Being out in the open salt water, with a new challenge, and a solid idea of how to get us to the finish, I was getting pumped. I remember going a little nuts and yelling into the wind, trying to charge both of us up. Remember the scene from Forest Gump, where they're on the shrimp boat in the middle of a hurricane and Lt. Dan is screaming into the storm? That was me. I'm really happy that the GoPro did not record clean audio for this portion...
Eventually, we reached the point and had to turn east to cross over to the dredge spoil island. I remember looking around the point, along the shoreline, wishing there was some way we could keep following it and stay out of the wind. There wasn't. We had to turn east sooner or later and the western shoreline would offer us no more protection. Now, the winds would be blasting us on the starboard side and my main concern was capsizing. Matt was not very experienced or comfortable in waves and open water. I imagined that this would be compounded by the fact that he was skirted in, with very little mobility. I was still driving us to paddle hard, but I was shifting more towards safety. Waves were still not very big in this section of the bay, but I didn't want to risk it. When ever I saw a bigger set approaching, I'd steer us into the waves and tell Matt to stay loose. It worked well to keep us stable, but it required that I focus a portion of my paddling towards steering. Matt noticed. “It feels like you're not paddling!” I tried to explain, what I was doing, but Matt was too focused and to strained to respond. “Why aren't we paddling towards the shoreline?” “We have to aim a bit towards the south, otherwise the wind will push us north.” Matt was winded and tired and struggling. In that condition, every thing seems like an unnecessary burden.
I was trying my best to tack our way across the bay. There was a buoy slightly to our north, in the middle of the arm of the bay. I was using this to judge our location and to judge our progress. This information was not encouraging, but we were moving. Actually, I believe the wind still pushed us a little north of my target. As we neared the shoreline I told Matt that we could have a short break. I needed to stop to pee and to get a quick look at the GPS. I had been paddling with the GPS in front of me, but it was almost impossible to see in these conditions. Matt was relieved at the mention of a break and I was genuinely sorry that I'd have to break my promise on that one...
We hit the dredge island and I hoped out. Checking the GPS I could see where the island ended and, looking south, I thought I could see where that point was. “OK, we're pushing off.” “I thought we were taking a break!?” “No, the end of the island is right there. We're not far from the finish.” I'm sure Matt was not happy, but we needed to keep moving. I knew he was exhausted and that the tough pace was pushing him to the limit. I had to keep us moving if we wanted to finish before dark. Hell, I had to keep us moving if we wanted to avoid camping out for the night. I'm sure many Safari teams have stopped at almost this exact spot, contemplating another hour or two of fighting their way through the wind and waves. “It's not possible. I'm too tired. Let's camp out until it calms...” I did NOT want to consider that. We were moving. We were making progress. We were almost there. (In fact, many teams did camp out at Wooden Bridge that night. A couple of Novice teams entered the bay after us. One of them finished 2 hours behind us and the other DNF'd in the bay. The rest of the paddlers waited at Wooden Bridge until the early morning hours, holding out for calmer conditions. We heard that Zoltan, at 71 years old, lead the charge into the bay. That was one of my favorite Safari stories.)
We continued along the island, with a little protection from the wind. Soon, we approached the point where I expected to see the end of the dredge islands. I was wrong. The island simply curved in to the east here, giving the illusion that it was ending. We had to paddle further. Matt was really not happy now. He even started sprinting when I tried to crack the pace whip on him. This was nice, while it lasted, then we slowed and the wind pushed us back. I quickly steered us east so we could hug the shoreline again and escape some of the wind. Slowly, painfully slowly, we progressed south-east towards the open bay. I was pushing hard for the point. When we got there, we would be rewarded.
Wind. A full blast of wind from the open bay. We thought it was tough before. We had reached the end of the dredge island. Rounding the point and turning east, there was the barge canal. Deep water, bigger waves. Beyond that was the northern shoreline, running east to the finish. Right now, we were getting pummeled. The wind was hammering us on the starboard side and literally pushing us back into the island. It was extremely jarring and discouraging. “You have to paddle hard!” If we were struggling before, how were we going to fight through this? Digging and digging, we crawled past the island and entered the barge canal. The wind was pushing hard. I felt like we were getting shoved north up into the canal. To make matters worse, I knew that we needed to angle a bit to the south...into the wind. In these winds, if you try to paddle directly east, you'll end up in the shallows of the northern shoreline. This is not where you want to be. Aside from the obvious fact that it is very shallow, it's also a rough, sloshed up mess. Waves coming across the bay will hit the seawall and rebound, resulting in a mixed up, multi-directional mess of bumps. As impossible as it seemed, I needed to steer us away from the shoreline, into the wind.
For the first time, I was seriously questioning whether we could make it. As far as I could tell, we weren't moving. The aluminum canoe was very stable in these conditions, but also very much out of it's element. The tall sides catch wind like a sail and the flat bottom just does not respond to waves. You really REALLY have to power this boat forward through the wind and waves. In all honesty, I am completely comfortable in a rough open bay, but I was starting to question how safe it was for us to be out there in an 80 lb, sinkable, brick of a canoe. If we capsized and were blown up the barge canal we'd have a hell of a time getting to shore. What the fuck were we doing out here in this canoe!?
We inched our way past a big buoy marking the barge canal channel. Hmm, at least we're moving forward. Once again, I don't remember what compelled me to keep pushing on. Sure, we were moving, but at a ridiculously slow pace. At that time, I felt like the pace was even slower than it actually was. I don't know. It was a battle and it took a strong effort just to keep the canoe moving at what was probably 2 mph. If you EVER slacked, even a little, the wind would start pushing you backwards. Both paddlers have to hammer. Matt was feeling it.
You can finish a Safari, under the 100 hour cut-off, with out ever having to push beyond a cruise, much less any where near a sprint pace. That sort of fitness is not required for any one except the top competitors. However...when you find yourself out in the open bay, in those conditions, in a boat that is not truly seaworthy, you have to push and push and push some more. If you have the fitness for it, then you really only have to overcome the accumulated exhaustion from the 260 miles you've already paddled. Pumped full of adrenaline, I was on the edge on my seat (literally). All thoughts of exhaustion were gone. While I had not paddled any where near the type of mileage I wanted to in training, I had spent a significant amount of time on strength training and cardio. I was in shape. I had a big reserve of energy left over from the easy cruise we had maintained through out the race. I was prepared to hammer as long as it took to get there.
Matt was digging deep. He didn't have the training behind him for this kind of effort, but he was trying. As soon as we made it across the barge canal, Matt was begging for shoreline. I can't blame him. In a rough bay, many teams bolt straight for that shore and either walk the canoe in through the mud, or heave it onto the seawall and drag it to the finish. Many teams finished this Safari in that fashion. Hell, some teams exit the river mouth, bolt straight for the dredge island, and walk the canoe. While I understood how much Matt was struggling, I was not going to acknowledge this option. Walking/dragging the canoe in is a pain in itself. It's deceptive in that it takes significantly longer than you'd think. I'd read plenty of Safari stories warning of this fact. And besides...I was absolutely set on paddling to that finish.
So, we struggled on, still heading east, but also slightly to the south to keep us out in deeper water. By this point, we had fallen into a routine. Matt was cranking away with his head down. When a big set of waves approached, I'd yell “stay loose!” and Matt would stop paddling and keep his hips loose. As soon as the set passed, I'd yell “dig!” and we would hammer, trying to cover as much ground as possible before the next set. All the while, I was also trying to manage the steering, which is no small task in those conditions. In a canoe, you paddle on opposite sides. The canoe will slowly turn towards the side that the bow paddler is paddling on. In marathon racing, you switch sides like this to steer the canoe, rather than using steering strokes that would take away from forward speed. If both paddlers switch to paddling on the same side, on the right for instance, the canoe will turn left, very quickly. In open water, where the wind is hitting you on the right side, the canoe will constantly try to turn right, into the wind. This complicates the steering, as you have to occasionally “hut” both paddlers to the right side to steer out of the wind, then “hut” again so you both aren't worn out from paddling too long on one side. It's a tricky skill to “hut” often enough to keep the muscles fresh with out letting the canoe steer itself straight into the wind.
It was getting late. The sun would be setting within the next hour or so. We were still inching our way along the northern shoreline, maybe 150 yards out from the shore. The question “can we actually do this” was long gone. We were making progress, driving this heavy, aluminum brick through the waves. Every time we sprinted over a bigger wave, the bow of the canoe would raise up, then smash down, killing all forward momentum. It didn't matter though, because I knew we were moving forward. Once again, Matt suggested we hit the shore. I didn't acknowledge. Our conversation shifted to “where is the finish line”? We really were not sure. Neither of us had ever been here. Obviously, it would be on this northern shoreline, but beyond that, we couldn't tell. For me, there was still that slight feeling of this being surreal. Was there a finish line...?
We spotted Matt's car on the seawall. There were Ed and Dan. Apparently, they'd found some where to park and were watching our progress. “I think that's the finish.” Matt pointed to a pavilion in the distance. I squinted, trying to make out the details or any thing that would signify the finish line. It looked right. Were those people standing on the edge of the seawall? Once more, Matt asked for shoreline. This time, I agreed. We were getting close. Now, we could angle slightly towards the shore and catch a boost from the waves. It was amazing. After all of this time, fighting our way through the wind, we were rocketing towards the shore and the steps at the finish. The wind waves, combined with the rebounding waves from the seawall were colliding and really tossing the canoe into the air. It didn't matter. People were lining the seawall and a few were at the steps, ready to help us out. I started sprinting like I was actually in a race, calling “huts” and hammering a fast stroke rate.
We rammed the bow of our canoe onto the steps. People were cheering. A few Safari veterans grabbed hold of the canoe. They tried to take Matt's paddle, but he was locked into a kung-fu grip. “It's OK! You've finished, it's over!” Matt relinquished his ZRE. I raised up out of my seat and decided it would be better to just fall out. People laughed. The water felt great. They carried our canoe up the steps and helped us out. I walked to the side of the canoe, intent on sitting down for a minute. When I got there, I just collapsed. Maybe it was a bit dramatic, but I was exhausted. The adrenaline was gone. I left more in the bay than I realized. Those were easily the most brutal 3 hours of the race. All at the end. How cruel. But, you know what? I was happy.
