Around LI

Kayak Trip

Around Long Island

By Tom Carroll

The goal was simple: paddle single handedly around Long Island by sea kayak in eleven days. I chose to do it in eleven days because some years ago four fireman paddled around in twelve days. More importantly than the time frame was the idea of paddling alone. I would have to rely completely on myself for my safety. Therefore I undertook a rigorous training schedule.

A kayaking class and the many books and magazines I read helped fine tune my technique for the circumnavigation. I also was to rely on my long hours spent on the water in all types of conditions. After eight months of preparation, the big day finally arrived.

Day 1: Saturday, July 17, Kings Point Marine Academy to Sheepshead Bay. 33 miles

I said good bye to my girlfriend and father and eased away from the dock at King’s Point Merchant Academy. At 4:30 am it was still dark. Gliding along at night gives one the sensation of weightlessness. My 4:30 departure was necessary to allow me enough time to paddle the nine miles to Hell Gate for slack tide. Off in the night I made out the sound of engines. I strained to see where they emulated from. Under the Throgs Neck Bridge I saw the faint outline of a barge in tow heading away from me. I immediately placed a call on my VHF to warn the tug and other ships of my location.

My nervousness returned to excitement with the first light. I had passed the Throgs Neck Bridge and Whitestone bridges and was within sight of Riker’s Island, a home to several thousand inmates. It is one of the largest prisons in the country. I was amazed at the immense size of the island. Mayor Dinkins solution to the overcrowding was to have the City of New York convert two Staten Island Ferries into cell blocks. They were moored side by side. Upon closer inspection I saw that the windows had been filled in with concrete and ramps covered with fencing and barbed wire. I held onto the mooring line of one of the ferries to take a quick rest, and then I was on my way to Hell Gate.

I reached Hell Gate at 7:55 am. By this time the flood had eased and the ebb was beginning. As I paddled through, there were a few whirlpools that felt like a giant had that grabber the bow and tried to spin the boat in a circle. One can imagine what the whirlpools would be like during high tide. I had to have eyes in the back of my head to keep track of all the commercial and pleasure traffic coming through. I kept my radio and whistle handy just in case, and stayed left of center of the main channel.

To see the New York City skyline from three feet above the East River is awe inspiring. Soon the traffic eased up quite a bit and I felt very alone. By the time I had passed the east side of Welfare Island the out-going tide had begun to increase its pace down the East River. I would have to paddle thirty-three miles to my pick-up point in Sheepshead Bay. The ebbing tide re-assured me that I would have some help doing it. I stopped at the Historical South Street Seaport for a half-hour break. I spoke with a few fellows restoring the nineteenth-century schooner, Lettie G. Howard. I took a close look at their ship and they looked at mine.

After eating two pop-tarts and drinking a pint of carbohydrate drink I was on my way again. I paddled past Governor’s Island and gave the boys at the Coast Guard station a salute. I shot straight across Gowanus Bay and hugged the shore along Bay Ridge, Brooklyn. I was very surprised to see my worried father waving frantically at me beneath the Varrazano Bridge. I stopped to tell him I was okay and to rest. I soon crossed three miles through Gravesend Bay and rounded Norton Point. The conditions were excellent up to this point and Coney Island was no exception. There were flat seas and plenty of people on the beach.

By the time I reached Sheepshead Bay I was exhausted. A head wind kicked up and fought me all the way into Sheepshead Bay Yacht Club. I phoned my girlfriend, Barbara, to pick me up and settled down in a chair on the Yacht Club porch. An older gentleman approached me and we began a conversation. I gave an explanation of my journey and there was immediate camaraderie between us. Peter Hannon, eighty years old, had been a Merchant Marine sailor all his life. We swapped adventure stories for over two hours. Peter has not let his age slow him down. He was preparing to depart abroad a Russian ice breaker to the Arctic. Here’s to you Pete!

At 7:30 am I launched into small whitecaps. Rocky Point was rough. There were 2-3 foot whitecaps and fishing boats all over the point. I picked my way through the boats and worked my way in closer to shore. As the hours passed, the seas grew calmer and broke into a slow steady rhythm. I compared myself to the Vikings of old, stroking to the beat of a war drum. Soon becoming tired of this train of thought, I began paddling to the beat of modern technology: my water resistant Sony walkman. At three miles west of Rockaway Inlet I pulled into the beach for break. There I met two men with sit on top kayaks, and we discussed my trip. We discussed equipment, design, and technique; however, the topic always returned to the reason why we paddle: the freedom, the peace, and the pure pleasure of just doing it. As I paddled away from them I realized that all kayakers belong to a fraternity of sorts.

The approach to the East Rockaway Inlet became steadily more difficult because I was paddling against the tide. I crawled through the inlet at a snails pace. Three hundred yards later I was squaffing down a well deserved cheeseburger and fries at a restaurant on the water while waiting for the tide to change.

What happened next I wouldn’t wish upon any sea kayaker. Reynold’s Channel is infamous for its boating traffic, and on this day it lived up to its reputation. The channel was extremely crowed. There were several boaters who decided to "buzz" me. Watching a forty foot cigarette bearing down on you makes you rethink your options. My first option was to purchase T.O.W missals at the next convenient time and the second, more practical option was to paddle in deceptively shallow water. Any fool dumb enough to try to "buzz" you will be rewarded with a shortage of water under his bow. Believe it or not there was one fellow who spent the afternoon digging out his boat. You know who you are.

By days end my nerves were shot. I wasn’t alone. At Point Lookout, my take out point, I met two other men who were buffeted by wakes in their sailboat’s cockpit. As I waited for my girlfriend to pick me up, I sat on the dock pondering the next day’s weather forecast and my ability to get back in the boat.

Day three became a rest day. My body needed a rest. It turned out to be for the best because the weather turned sour and my paddle needed a quick sanding and varnishing.

The forecast looked grim. The Coast Guard forecasted twenty-knot winds and rain. I was determined to at least give it a try. At 7:00 am, it was cloudy but there was no rain. I pushed away from the dock, pointing my bow eastwards to the state channel. As I passed Jones Inlet I got back into a rhythm. My day of rest had rejuvenated my body and soul. I was ready for anything. Within two hours the sun poked through the clouds and I was in high spirits again. With a prevailing westerly wind at my back and a favorable current I covered twenty miles in four hours. As I passed under the Robert Moses Causeway Bridge, I pulled alongside a clammer who was snoozing in his pilot house. He suddenly awoke as I passed.

From there I paddled to Hecksher State Park. While waiting for my ride I poured over my Nynex directory of charts. Something was wrong. Then suddenly I realized my blunder. Up until now the pages were scaled in one mile increments. The following day’s route was in two mile scale. This added twenty six miles to my trip, which meant I’d have to forfeit my second rest day. I would now have to paddle the next seven days without a break!

Day 5: Wed, July 21, Hecksher State Park to Westhampton Beach, Montuk Point, 30 mi.

Wednesday morning I looked for the east end of the Great South Bay and Barbara worriedly asked, "where’ s the other end?" I pulled out my binoculars and strained. I saw nothing. It looked like the Atlantic lay in front of me. I replied, "The end is eighteen miles that way," pointing my finger east. Amazingly the sun shined directly above my course, casting down a sheen of light. It guided me like the "yellow brick road" I sought a friendly clam boat to latch onto for rest. The clammer and I discussed the shell fishing industry for awhile and then I was off.

Reaching Smith’s point was a challenge because of the tide flushing into the Great South Bay. When I finally reached the Smith’s Point Bridge, I stopped for a rest. While launching, I was pummeled by the wake of a yacht not heeding the 5 mph zone. One hour later the tide slackened and I made my way through Narrow Bay and Moriches Bay. It was here at Fire Island where I began to notice the devastation of the December storm of ‘92. With the wind at my back and favorable current under my keel I flew by pieces of wreckage under me. There is a two hundred yard breech in the island. The houses were all gone. A single house remained teetering on stilts on the east side of the inlet. I stopped to photograph this amazing example of the power of mother nature. The last one and a half miles were completed with a sprint to the finish line, Montauk Point.

Day 6: Tu July 22, Westhampton Beach, Montauk Point to 1 mi west of Mecox Bay, 20 mi.

Barbara and I pulled into the parking lot where I pulled out of the day before at 7am. I carefully loaded the boat with seventy five pounds of gear, food, and water: which would sustain me for the next three days. The Nordcapp carried the extra weight surprisingly well. It was balanced and seemingly unsinkable; like a submarine! My day began entertaining myself by reciting lines from scenes from my favorite movies: Mountains of the Moon, Das Boat, Moby Dick. My thoughts quickly returned to the environment surrounding me as I entered Shinnecock Bay.

Miles of shallow, sandy bottoms greeted me. I marveled at how quickly my kayak silently glided over them. Until now I gave Shinnecock Inlet little thought. After all, I had gotten this far. I had conquered Hell Gate, New York City’s lower bay, Reynolds Channel, and all the waters in between. As usual, common sense would prevail - right ? My approach would take me to the east of Shinnecock Inlet. From there I would hug the left, or east side out. The benefit being that I would exit the inlet without having to cross it from the west side and thus exposing myself to commercial traffic, and possible rough seas.

As I entered the inlet I saw a fishing trawler heading in from about three miles out. The situation was fine so far. Approximately halfway through those fine conditions steepened into the shape of the biggest waves I have ever seen from the cockpit of a kayak.

I punched through the first wave, hanging a moment in the air, and came crashing down, surrounded by walls of water, my heart was creeping skyward. Quickly I began to plan my escape. I wanted to head to the west side where the wave crest it appeared was calmer. But I couldn’t because the trawler was coming! I was committed to my original course. Before my next thought could register, I was sliding sideways down a twelve footer. I leaned with all the weight into the wave I could to keep from rolling over. After fighting to hold my course and stay up right, I screamed aloud to myself, "Get a hold of yourself and concentrate!" I hunkered down and paddled for all I was worth. The next wave nearly threw me end over backwards! This battled lasted only ten minutes, but it left me with a new feeling of respect for the power of the sea.

I paddled along two more miles along Easthampton Beach and landed. I ran up into the sand and crashed. I was six miles short of my destination but I didn’t care. I needed to find out what happened. I paged through my directory and found what I was searching for. The paragraph read: "

Only experienced skippers with current knowledge of local conditions should attempt to cross Shinnecock Inlet. Novices should avoid the inlet. Anyone who does cross should stay closer to the inlets’ west side".

So much for common sense. I should have researched this one more carefully. I was left a little disheveled and concerned about the thirty five miles that had to be covered the following day. However, I survived and I believe I am better for it. I recalled the words of Will Unsold from his book. Reading from the Hurricane Island Outward Bound School, "Hunger, thirst, cold, fatigue , your own physical and mental limitations - you will feel all of these. This teaches you about nature; more than that, you come face to face with yourself."

With this new outlook, things were looking a little better. I pitched my tent close to a sand dune. My tent is sandy in color which made my presence unknown to others. I placed my kayak in between the tent and the sand dune for concealment. It’ s amazing what a warm sleeping bag and a good dinner can do for the worried mind. Later I sat back in my Crazy Creek chair, read my Outward Bound Reading book, and watched the sunset. When I crawled into my sleeping bag I knew tomorrow would be a better day.

I awoke with renewed vigor, knowing that at least if I went down I would go down swinging my paddle. I broke camp. It was strange that no one approached me on a private beach. Many people had seen me set up, and I even spoke with some, but no one gave or revoked permission to camp.

I paddled eastward, concentrating on only the next two hours ahead of me. During a rest stop, a beach goer pointed out Calvin Klein’s and Steven Speilbeg’s houses. Later I saw Billy Joel’s house. It took me ten hours to make Montauk Point. The weather was good, with one foot to two foot seas. The bluffs were amazing. I took my eyes off the rock to view the cliffs and suddenly I went up on a wave and came down on a rock. The hull beneath my seat flexed and there was a sharp grating sound. I peered inside my skirt periodically to check for leaks. Luckily, there were none. I paddled on, resisting a rocky landing to examine my damaged hull. The adrenaline in me was coursing freely now as I made out the brown and white light house of Montauk Point. I sprinted to shore, jumped out, and raised my hands in "V" for victory.

After taking some photographs I climbed up the hill to the concession and called Barbara. It had been two days without contact and I was anxious to let my family know I was okay. After a brief stay I rounded the point in search of a suitable campsite. After a five mile paddle I surf landed near a line of trailers and the plunging waves rolled me over. A group of people assembled and I pulled me and my gear onto the beach. the questions followed: "How do you stay up?", Where did you come from?", Where are you going?". When I told them about my journey, I became a celebrity of sorts and I found myself barraged with food water, and all kinds of advice. I pitched my tent near a bluff and cooked a big pot of pasta. Later, my new friends and I plotted the next days course from Shagwong Point to Orient Point an eighteen mile crossing, and I got myself ready for a good night’s sleep.

I awoke at 7am and picked up my boat. The 9 am incoming tide would carry me north westward nine miles to Gardiner’s Island and then to Orient Point. The crossing to Gardner’s Island was uneventful. I took a rest stop there. As I paddled along the shore I looked at what appeared to be a weather station when all of a sudden, whack something hit my bow. I looked forward to see a four foot brown colored shark swimming away. We most likely startled each other. From that point on, I kept an eye on the waters below my kayak. Eventually I made my way north, passing Gardiner’s Point on my right. Gardiner’s Point was a target for Naval bombing years ago and is now off limits due to possible unexploded shells.

Just beyond the point lay seven miles of rough open water caused by the currents of Plum Gut. The crossing was very difficult. Three hours later I was within two hundred yards of Orient Point and couldn’t reach it. I was caught in a frightening rip tide which pulled me right out into the gut. I had to paddle as hard as I could just to make it to shore. Once there I got out of the boat and walked it around the point. In waist deep water, I suddenly felt a strange sensation shoot up my legs. A glance down reveled a red jelly fish between my legs. Fortunately the stings did not seriously affect me and I continued my paddling.

As I continued on, I realized the immense differences between the north shore and the south shore. They are two very different environments. The island’s rocky north shore is a product of the ice age while the south shore , left untouched, is flat, shallow, and sandy. The tall cliffs of the north shore remind me of Ireland’s and England’s shore lines as photographed and described by Bill Taylor, the author of the book, Commitment and Open Crossing. Bill Taylor and his paddling companions made the first circumnavigation of England and Ireland by kayaks in one expedition.

By 3:00 PM the tide was no longer flowing in my favor and it was time to eat, I pulled alongside two fisherman in their boat and struck up a conversation. They asked me if I heard of the twenty five foot giant white shark that was reportedly sighted just a mile off Montauk Point a few days prior. As I paddled away I found myself once again on "shark watch".

At 5 PM I pulled into a place known as Rocky Point. It is marked by a rock in the water as big as a house. I pitched my tent among some boulders and began cooking up some Polynesian chicken. After dinner I watched the sunset and by 9:30 had retired for the night.

The day began with my usual routine: a nutrition bar, five ounces of carbohydrate drink and stretching exercises to limber myself up.

By 7am Rocky Point was a speck in the distance behind me. The morning was uneventful. I sighted nothing but some fisherman several miles away. However, as the hours were on, Long Island Sound began to come alive as fishermen appeared seemingly out of nowhere, They probably came from Mattituk Inlet. The highlight of my day was hearing and then seeing a one man ultra light flying directly over me. He was almost close enough for me to hit with a stone. I waved to the plane and an arm extended from the fuselage and gestured back to me.

After the plane disappeared from sight my thoughts returned to the many beautiful campsites I had seen on my journey. Of all the places one can pitch a tent on the Long Island shorelines, the North Shore is by far the most beautiful place to do so. Almost all the shore is privately owned and in many cases there is no one around. You are taking your chances camping there because you may be told to leave or be accused of trespassing. Traveling solo has the benefit of concealment.

After approximately eight hours of paddling, my bow dug a furrow into a pebble beach in Wading River, my last stop for the day.

Day 10: Monday, July 26; Wading River to Eaton’s Neck Coast Guard Station, 33 miles.

This morning the seas were made of glass. I cruised silently only feet from the shore. I examined the wrath of the winter storms on the bluffs. Staircases leading down to the beach were destroyed and in some cases, entire back yards had fallen into the sea. Port Jefferson was a familiar and welcome sight. I took a thirty minute nap on the rocky jetty marking the entrance to the harbor.

The day’s challenge would be the crossing to Smithtown Bay. I assessed the situation at Crane Point. The twelve mile crossing would take about four hours to complete. Soon I was well on my way. Two and a half hours later a westerly wind picked up, impeding my progress to the point where I turned south and headed into shore. There the wind was less severe and I made way around Eaton’s Neck into the Coast Guard Station.

Day 11: Tue, July 27; Crescent Beach, Huntington to Kings Point Merchant Marine Academy, 22 mi.

On Tuesday morning I awoke to the sound of thunder. My girl friend and I loaded up the car and left with hope that by the time we got to Eaton’s Neck, the weather would clear up. At Eaton’s Neck the conditions only worsened. We sat in our car for a long wait. I listened for area weather broadcasts on my VHF radio and was relieved to hear that the storm was passing north. At 5am amidst a full fledged lightning storm, we weren’t going anywhere soon, so we settled down in the car. The light show lasted until 9:00 am. It was time to make my move.

I was fearful of another storm, so I decided to hug the shoreline and avoid any open water crossing if possible. This would add considerable mileage, but it was safer.

I launched south of Eaton’s Neck at Crescent Beach in Huntington Bay. With my radio, survival gear, and anorak at hand, I paddled briskly for Lloyd’s Harbor. Lloyd’s Harbor ends in a small marshy area. My plan was to carry the bot over the two-mile lane road that connects the mainland to Lloyd’s Neck, and put in on the opposite side. By the time I had reached it, low tide had turned what had been a marsh into a giant mud flat. I made it to within seventy five yards of the road before my kayak and I were high and dry. To turn back now meant an extra five miles of paddling, and because of the storm I was already several hours off schedule. I thought to myself, "The only way out is through." I tested the mud’s consistency with my paddle. The blade sunk two feet down. I had read once that some marshes can be as deadly as quicksand. Therefore, as I stepped out, I made it a point to keep a firm grip on the deck line. Ten steps later I was swimming chest deep in mud. I was able to pull myself hand over onto the deck. Once back on board the kayak, I paddled surf board style towards the nearest weeds. The weeds gave me the support to pull on. The mud in the weedy area had shell life in it, giving enough support to hold up my weight. On the other side of the road I rinsed off my equipment and paddle in salt water.

I set off knowing that in just a few hours my adventure would be over. I made my way westward along the shore. I was met with an eerie haze at the eastern side of Hempstead harbor. I paddled in earnest to cross the three miles as quickly as possible. Approximately half way across I began to feel as though my sense of balance had left me. The sky and the water were a dull silver in color. I had trouble finding the water with my paddle. I experienced the strange sensation of gliding through a silver tunnel, drifting suspended by an unseen force. A trusty low brace kept me upright and I soon realized that the ripples made by the brace in the gloss like water brought me a sense of orientation. This form of special disorientation or kayak angst, as it was known to the Greenlanders, would be an experience I would not soon forget.

The sun came out and a strong easterly wind picked up. The next few hours of paddling proved to be challenging. But when the Throgs Neck Bridge came into view, the blisters, the discomfort, and the challenges of the past eleven days seemed to matter little now. I pulled from within enough energy to sprint the last few miles to Kings Point. My girlfriend, my family and a small group of well wishers were on the pier awaiting my arrival with cameras and champagne. As I pulled in to my final destination, I was filmed by News 12, a local Long Island television station. After a short interview with News 12, we packed up my gear and headed off to my favorite pizzeria for a celebration dinner.

The circumnavigation was completed in the allotted time. The equipment worked flawlessly. There were few mishaps and the weather was favorable. On the whole the trip was a complete success.

My true rewards came with those times of solitude. Even more importantly were the times of uncertainty, discomfort, and fear. My trip has taught me that there is more to be learned from one day of discomfort, anxiety, and fear than from a lifetime of comfort and security. Nature can teach you some of life’s lessons. Sometimes all it takes is you lending an ear.

Paddle

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