Tide, Feather, Snow_ A Life in Alaska - Miranda Weiss [40]
6
ON THE WATER
CONFUSED SEA: n. A highly disturbed water surface without a single, well-defined direction of wave travel which may follow a sudden shift in wind direction.
Do you think it’s too rough?” I asked John. We looked out across the water from the cobble beach at the tip of the Spit. We were standing in rubber boots, waterproof pants, and raincoats on a sunny summer evening. In an unpaved parking lot at the top of the beach, the Jeep sat with a double kayak strapped to the roof and two days’ worth of food and camping gear in the back. We were planning to paddle across the bay—a four-mile crossing—to camp for a couple of nights, but, knowing that we couldn’t gauge the conditions of the sea unless we were at the water’s edge, we looked out onto the surface, trying to decide whether it was safe to make the crossing.
It was nearly nine o’clock; the bay should have already lay down. Instead, the water had a small chop; I didn’t like the look of it. I was scared of paddling across unless the bay was glassy. I wanted so badly for John to say we shouldn’t go.
“It looks OK to me,” he said. “What about you?”
The gravel shifted under my feet. “Yeah, yeah. I guess it’s okay,” I managed. I stared across at a cluster of rocky islands called Gull Rocks, where thousands of seabirds nested each summer. Once we reached them, I would be close to protected water and could relax. It wouldn’t take that long, I told myself, only about an hour.
“You checked the forecast, right?” I asked.
“Winds to five knots. No big deal.”
“Do you think it’s okay?” I asked again.
He looked at me. He knew I wanted him to decide, to tell me either that everything would be fine, or that we shouldn’t go. He resisted. “Let’s make this decision together. Are you comfortable with this?”
I knew I could say no, that we could drive home and try again in the morning. But John was willing to go. I didn’t want to be the one to hold us back.
It was only a few weeks past summer solstice, so the evening sunlight was strong, picking out the whites of gulls and murres on the water. Although Kachemak Bay was fairly protected, wind could pick up at any moment and rile the surface of the sea. Tankers rumbled in and out of the bay, and droves of charter and commercial fishing boats left imposing wakes across the water.
We had paddled across the bay twice earlier that summer, both times leaving in the early morning, when the water was flat and glassy. The bay’s surface was typically smooth at this time, before the sun had warmed the air over the land, making it rise, and stirring up the day breeze. I felt fairly comfortable paddling when the water lay smooth and cleanly reflected the mountain range on the other side. I liked the sea to be silent, the tide slack, and the sky static and dull. But even then, out in the middle of the bay, half an hour from land on either side, I felt that just the depth of the sea could pull me down.
Few people crossed the bay in kayaks, though they’d been designed thousands of years ago as sturdy, seagoing hunting craft. These slim, low-profile boats, originally made from skins stretched over wood frames, were light and stable in the water. Many of the modern versions had foot-controlled rudders for easier steering. And these boats had enough storage space to pack a week’s worth of gear. Rather than make the crossing in kayaks, most people rented kayaks from one of the outfits on the south shore or went on guided paddling trips offered during the summer. Even among locals who owned their own kayaks, most hired water taxis to take them into the more protected inlets and fjords on the other side of the bay. But people did paddle across, usually young, experienced sea kayakers with the holds of their boats packed for a few nights of camping.
John was an experienced paddler. A few years before, he had built his own