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Wednesday |
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It was sure a
swell treat to join Hoyt & Heidi on a
boat trip to Blake Island. Beachfront
campsites are on the west side with a fine
view of rampant development in the foothills of
Olympics; walk a couple hundred yards
around the point and see Seattle skyline, still in sight of
civilization yet it feels so far away, maybe
because only access is by sea,
but that shouldn't be too hard if paddling
over from nearby. A
SUP would do, especially if you time the tide
and wind right. I'm on a sobriety kick so didn't
pack beers or booze as I normally would, and
neither did Sarah, and neither did Heidi, but
Hoyt had just enough for
himself and that was fine but as we sat there in
silent sunshine beside the water I decided if
possible I would have a beer. But none were
available. Until a little while later Heidi
remembered some leftovers in the hold of the
boat. I wasn't sure I wanted one anymore but
Sarah said she'd have one so I volunteered to
fetch them by the only means available: a kneel-upon orange tube propelled
by a single paddle. There's a reason they make
boats pointy. It was easy to set oneself
spinning and forward progress was awkward and
slow. To make matters worse, I put
in from too far away, thinking
incorrectly the current or breeze would drift me
in. As the sun set I wondered what it would be
like to be swept away, the water too cold for
swimming a long distance. How embarrassing that
would be. I made it by and by, leaving Hoyt time
to shoot this perfect picture, tied on firmly to
the stern of 19' Chapparal,
unsnapped the canvas, slipped under and crawled
forward in the dark, pried the bow seat up and dug
out six cans of IPA. I fit three in
pockets of board shorts, nestled
the other 3 between my knees on the trampoline
of the tube, paddled
furiously to shore, a much quicker straight line
trip this time. The fire was going, potatoes
roasting, a perfect time for a beer and I'd
earned it but the craving had passed so I
didn't.
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