By Priscilla Schlottman, Matthew Krizan, and Bert Vergara

The Farallon Islands are 26 miles west of San Francisco. Often shrouded in fog, the islands are isolated and boast a fearsome reputation as ‘The Devil’s Teeth’. This is the story of our resolution to push through the barriers and dance – briefly – among these legendary rocks.

Between the devil’s teeth

Bert: “I can see Matt in the headlights as we pull into the parking lot. He is fully geared up and standing next to his car. He’s been here for a couple of hours. On the way up he stopped by the home of a friend to borrow an inReach and a PLB for our trip. Despite only getting two hours sleep and very little training in the past couple of months, I somehow feel ready.”

Matt: “I would have preferred a full moon and no clouds or fog this morning. I’d have preferred the wind forecasts to have been stable; instead they’ve been varying for days. I’d have preferred to get more sleep; I had two-and-a-half hours out of the last 39! Not ideal circumstances as I’m about to depart for a trip I’ve been thinking about for years and actively planning for ten months. Yet, I am excited. I am confident in the three of us.”

Priscilla: “I’m standing on the sand at Drake’s Beach, looking through the darkness toward our invisible destination. I should be bursting with excitement. Three years of pondering. Two years of training. Yet, I’m wondering how I’m going to launch into breaking surf in the dark. I can’t see the waves. Only the white water is visible as they explode onto shore. I don’t believe this is actually going to happen. We had two other attempts planned this year; both were called off because wind strength was over our 10-knot safety threshold. Wind is over our 10-knot safety threshold tonight as well. I’m certain we will get to the buoy, our first waypoint, and decide to turn around, paddle back and have breakfast somewhere.”

I turn to Bert and say, “You go first, I want to see what happens to you. I watch my partner push his glow stick illuminated sea kayak into the black water. A wave crashes over his bow. The front end of his boat gets tossed up. I know he has a face full of sea water, probably sand too. He doesn’t capsize, but he’s going backward instead of forward. This happens twice before he finally gets through the break. As I watch, my eyes adjust, and now I can see the swells. I try to time it, wait for a smaller swell to launch, but my boat is weighed down with water and supplies and it takes me longer to scoot down the sand than I anticipate. I take an exploding, sand-filled swell to the face. The salt and sand combine with the thick layer of sunscreen on my face and turn immediately into a goopy paste.”

Matt: “As I draw the cool, salty air down into my chest, the few remaining butterflies in my belly settle. Knowing I can’t see much more than the horizon, I keep my eyes closed and focus on what I’m hearing. The barest moan of wind, the sudden patter of small shell bits shifting underneath the building crest of the oncoming wave, the tinny explosion as the crest collapses across the beach, the roar of the foam dying to a hiss as it reaches underneath my legs and seat, tempting my kayak into the water. Once afloat, I stab my paddle into the water and am immediately startled by a blue-white explosion of fire trailing my paddle: Bioluminescence! The reward for choosing our early departure time is glowing in the wakes and vortices we leave behind, a lingering measure of our progress as we make our way south towards the opening of the bay and the wide dark line of open water beyond. Even with all of our preparation, it’s immediately clear that maintaining my equilibrium on this night will be more difficult than anticipated. We trained for this trip by completing about a dozen Monterey Bay crossings, two of them at night. However, on those preparatory journeys, we launched at sunset and paddled into darkness, gradually adjusting to the change in light. Tonight we launch into shades of black. The only visual we have is the light atop the Chimney Rock buoy, 2.7 miles distant.”

Priscilla: “From the Chimney Rock buoy it’s another 4+ miles to the second waypoint, the start of the shipping channel. We decide to go for it. Still inky beautiful out, it is 04:30. Bert is wishing the sun would come up. I’m oddly comfortable on this dark sea. We hear a whale breathe. Close, just off Matt’s left side. I’m comforted. We see the dark arch of a dorsal fin against the glassy water. We tap our boats to let the whales know where to NOT surface. We can smell their breath. They’re surrounding us. All of a sudden the whales start to trumpet. A crazy roaring. Are they warning us? Are they announcing this momentous departure? I know that their trumpeting likely has nothing to do with us. My imagination is running wild. I’m starting to believe we might actually do this.”

Matt: “In the dark, the wind-waves on top of the swell are throwing off my balance so I look at the horizon to cage myself. Now my back hurts, so I adjust, glance at the compass and I’m 30 degrees off course! How long have I been heading there? I verify with the GPS and work that compass needle back to our course. Be efficient – stretch that paddle out to your toes! Now look at the horizon to regain balance. Now my leg hurts, so I adjust. Now I’m 30 degrees off course again! Somehow, I still manage to get us to within 100 yards of the shipping boundary waypoint. The GPS pings but does not cycle. We raft up and I manage to negotiate our next waypoint out of the GPS.”

Bert: “As the waves grow higher, the period increases and winds pick up, so does my alertness. We continue and my eyes become strained, my vision distorted, impacting my balance. I can focus when I look left and right, but my eyes quickly blur when I look forward for any length of time. I believe this is due to the lack of any significant light, the fog, not being able to maintain focus while looking forward, and not being able to see what’s near because I’m not wearing my reading glasses. Eventually, I put them on so I can at least see up close. This seems to help minimize some of my eyestrain. I’ve done a few long paddles across San Francisco Bay and Monterey Bay at night, but I’ve never had this level of disorientation. I know that with more light, my vision will improve. I want the sun to peek through on the horizon!”

Priscilla: “Ambient light grows with painfully slow progress as we cross the shipping channel. Bert is relieved by the light. I’m disoriented by it. My head starts to ache and spin. Matt needs help stabilizing his boat. He’s gone to war with the GPS. We generally raft up during breaks to eat, adjust and attend to bodily needs. My body needs to vomit. Bert is on the outside of the raft, assessing the situation. Matt is in the middle swearing at the GPS. I’m on the other side, vomiting between my boat and Matt’s. I feel instantly better. Matt wins his battle with the GPS. I win mine with my stomach. Bert’s announces we may go forth!”

Matt: “Our next destination is 4.7 miles distant, the southern boundary of the shipping channel. Normally, we take breaks after paddling for an hour. However, we don’t want to be drifting on the cargo-vessel highway any longer than necessary. We decide to push through and take our break when we know we’re clear of the lanes. We’re going to be paddling longer than normal; the good news is that dawn is upon us, and Priscilla is confident that she can now see her compass well enough to steer. She leads Bert and me towards the gray horizon.”

Bert: “We have been paddling just under three hours. In the early morning hours, as the sun rises, my vision improves. It’s still hazy, but I’m able to see several miles into the distance. On breaks we continue to take bites of food and hydrate. Matt has to manipulate the GPS at every stop. We continue to paddle for several more hours, constantly looking out on the horizon, hoping the islands will appear. At this point in the paddle, the smaller swells and wind-driven waves have decreased and we’re experiencing large, deep water swells, which seem to consume Matt and Priscilla as they roll through.”

Priscilla: “There’s a different pattern in the fog. A lump. What is that? I wonder. It looks like an island. OH MY GOD! I think and then shout, ‘I see the Northern Islands!’ Craggy rock slowly becomes more visible in the west.”

Matt: “Soon the biggest and main set of islands begin to swim out of the fog to our left. The Southeast Farallon islands appear as steep peaks girded by soaring arches and toppled columns at the waterline.”

Priscilla: “Still no sign of our target though – the middle island. Then Matt sees it. It looks like a little rock dead ahead. Technically, it is a little rock. The middle island is not much of an island. When designing this paddle, we chose to circumnavigate that island because even if it was foggy, we should still be able to get a good look at the northern and southern islands on our way around the middle island. The middle island circumnavigation also has the benefit of the shortest mileage. We arrive just to the west of it around 9:30 am – not bad. It’s taken us six hours to cover about 22 miles. The setting is hostile and cold. Landing is forbidden so we’re sure to stay well outside of the legal limit when approaching the protected islands. Landing is also likely impossible in our fragile boats. There are no beaches here. Just jagged rock. The water is rough, huge swells move between the islands, fog surrounds everything. There is something ominous about these rocks.”

Bert: “The Northern Islands appear majestic and seem to reach into the sky. The Southern Islands are large, magnificent, they take my breath away. The middle island, well let’s just say it’s small. We stop just west of it, pose and take photos. Big smiles and personal satisfaction radiate from all of us. As we come around the middle island, the currents and conditions change into powerful steep swells. I’m happy to direct my thoughts to our return. I’m starting to feel the effects of only having slept for two hours.”

Matt: “The prediction for our paddle out to the islands was for winds in the teens coming from over our right shoulder on the way down, then the winds would die down to less than 10 knots around the time we hit the islands, and might even switch around and give us a light push upon our return. Instead, our experience is nearly the opposite. Light northwesterly winds on the way down, increasing to a solid wind in the teens, and not changing direction, as we round the middle island and turn back for our return. We now have 22 miles to paddle back in headwinds.”

Bert: “We begin to spread out as we paddle back. Priscilla seems energetic and is beginning to paddle stronger and get further ahead. I feel tired because of the wind and changing conditions. Matt’s energy is visibly beginning to decline. At the next stop, I notice that that the clip on my forward hatch is broken. We take about 20 minutes to open the hatch, check for water and find materials to engineer a fix for the hatch.”

Matt: “I began the paddle sleep deprived. I knew that I would get fatigued. I’m trying to be efficient while returning against the headwind by reaching out and spearing the water as far forward as I can and taking shorter strokes at a quicker cadence. The fatigue is getting to me. My back feels like it is made out of wood, my torso rotation has slowed. This is putting a big damper on our pace. I’m falling way behind Bert and Priscilla.”

Bert: “After we set off, my body is aching. My shoulder and elbow hurt. I have developed large blisters on the palms of my hands and fingertips. I again grow concerned with the distance between the three of us. Priscilla is paddling far enough ahead that I can only see her head popping up between swells. Matt is slowly becoming a small dot behind me. I decide to maintain my pace between them. Priscilla stops paddling and is blown back towards me, she says that we can’t continue like this. I agree.”

Priscilla: “We have about four miles visibility. After the first few legs of the way home we can see no land anywhere. The wind is unnerving. I feel best when I’m moving. Sitting still in the surge waiting for the others makes my stomach revolt. Bert is gaining ground faster than Matt. I’m concerned about Matt; he’s agitated and dropping things during stops. With about 12 miles remaining, I offer to tow Matt. My rationale is that it will keep us together, possibly add some speed to his pace, and reduce my speed without reducing my rhythm.”

Bert: “Matt agrees to receive a supported tow from Priscilla. As they continue north, I stay to Matt’s port side. I’m impressed with Matt. I notice a dramatic speed increase with only a few tugs on the towline between Priscilla and Matt. I realize the pain I was experiencing before is gone.”

Matt: “The tow works! It is exactly what I’ve done in times past, except that I’ve always been the tow-er! Our overall pace improves and Bert and Priscilla do not have to spend their energy turning around to keep track of me. Priscilla tows me for a good ten miles.”

Priscilla: “As we move north of shipping channel, the Point Reyes peninsula gradually emerges from the fog. Off to my left a humpback whale comes completely out of the water in a torpedo-like breach. All of a sudden we’re again surrounded by humpback whales. It’s as if they saw us off and are now greeting us. There’s a baby trying to fluke, several adults and a juvenile. They come up so close to us that I close the gap between Matt and I, fearful that a whale will emerge beneath the tow rope. We stop for photos and watch the whales for about 30 minutes. The water is glass again, the wind has vanished. We’ve been paddling for about 14 hours and still have around 5 miles to go.”

Bert: “About a mile from Drakes Beach, Priscilla unhooks the tow rope and we all paddle at our own pace. Priscilla is the first to land.”

Priscilla: “The beach is filled with people for the Labor Day holiday. I stop to splash some of the sand, sweat and grime from my face. I’m clearly going to have an audience. I land gracefully, pull my skirt and try to stand up. My legs are not working. I’m in an odd position, knees not straightening and pointing out to both sides. My hands are like raw hamburger. I take a moment to collect my strength and try to pull my boat up the beach. My boat does not budge. I have zero strength and no ability to grip. My cockpit is filled with water from my leaking skirt. A man runs down the beach and drags my boat up. He keeps asking if I’m ok. I want to tell him that I have just circumnavigated one of the Farallon Islands. I keep quiet. I don’t think he’ll believe me.”