Story and photos:
Roger Aguirre Smith 

We’re almost clear of the final land mass jutting out into the Pacific; a bluff extending out from the base of Whale Peak. Our eyes have been on Soberanes Point for hours now. Six hours ago, under starry skies, we left our sheltered camp and began the paddle north. Now with only three miles to go, the wind is nuclear, every stroke is like pulling taffy, muscles beyond cramped, mush-mind has replaced any logical thought, wind pressures against our chests, our paddles flick in the wind. We round the point a quarter mile off the coastline and into chaos and the intensity of deterioration. The hardest part is yet to come.

It was my idea to make the trip knowing the conditions might not be good. The small craft advisory should have been a red flag but it wasn’t. I’ve pulled the plug on trips with similar warnings before only to see little texture on the water. I was wrong, I should have known the winds would be apocalyptic south of Carmel despite the contrary forecasts.

I sent out an email to 20 of my fellow kayakers, “The Big Sur weekend paddle is on. Thirty-eight miles round-trip with ninja camping Saturday night. Who’s in?” All but one declined: Priscilla.

We were on the water by 08.00 Saturday morning with a cool NW breeze feathering across our skin. Blue skies, wisps of fog and stoke for our quick Big Sur tour filled the conversation as we packed our sea kayaks with food, dry clothes, sleeping bags and safety gear.

Paddling along the white sandy stretch of Garrapata Beach and around Kaiser Point, the fog teased our visibility in an uncomfortable dance of hide and seek. The steep Santa Lucia Mountains to the east were our guides. Travelling further south these 1,600 foot ridge tops disappeared into another time.

Castle Rock, our first critical navigational mark, emerged from behind a veil. Through dense fog we began to make out rock pillars and a large stone face rising out of the water – guards of an ancient timeline of mountains and erosion. The tall concrete supports of a coastal icon rose up to meet the sun. We stopped for water and calories under the Bixby Bridge; breathing in the morning solitude shared with two Common dolphins.

We surfed our first waves after rounding Hurricane Point. Wind at our stern quarter, boats picking up momentum, we began linking waves together. Each swell increased our hull speed, allowing us to pick up the next roller. We were surfing to Big Sur and making excellent time! Point Sur was our next target.

With winds blowing 20 knots, we approached an obscured Point Sur. Blindly rounding the point, we adjusted our heading to stay 100 yards off the rock. The spit of sand on the lee side of the landmark was a funnel for the gradient weather patterns. It was windy. Really windy. We set our course to 111 magnetic and continued surfing towards False Sur, Swiss Canyon and the Big Sur river mouth.

We reached our camp at 12.30 where raking sand scoured a forgotten beach of lost shoes and wrack. Seventeen and a half nautical miles in four hours. This seemed appropriate for a travelling surf session. We hauled our loaded boats high up on the deserted beach and took stock of the afternoon’s potential. Priscilla opted for a long walk down the beach-of-searching-souls, while I hunkered down behind my boat to read about the birds facing into the afternoon’s gale.

I couldn’t remember the last time I was a human being rather than a human doing. Deserted beaches can do that do you. I read, I walked, I collected a dozen shoes lost to their owners. Who were these people and why did they all lose their left shoe? This, I thought, is what a human being does without Facebook, SnapChat, Email or Netflix. We ask questions, we create, we mark time by the sun, moon and tides… and hopes of diminishing winds.

I hardly sleep at all but it didn’t really matter. The stars are out; the Milky Way offering opportunities of distant wonder – the wind too seems distant from our protected lee. We point our kayaks north and head home this morning. I hope the paddle is enjoyable, I know it won’t be… so does Priscilla. The small craft advisory told us so and we… I …didn’t listen.

We launch our boats in the Big Sur river at 05.00

Guided by moonlight and pre-dawn stars, we paddle a few lengths up river and edge our long sea kayaks around to set up for the narrow channel we need to thread for the final hard left turn that will flush us into the ocean’s will. The wind hits us a half mile from the confluence of fresh and salt. We lean forward and dig in.

The rising sun lights up Priscilla’s X18. Her white boat, a sunrise-orange bloom in the middle of wind’s hand. The sculpted blue troughs and high peaks speak of adventure, of challenge… of raw grace. Looking deeply, I feel connected to the moment… of the sublime. My mind looks hopelessly towards our next objectives.

It is difficult for me to articulate. Words get lost, just as one hopes the mind will, when the physical body is pushed beyond assumptive limits. I’ve never had to work so hard physically or mentally in my 52 years as I have on this trip and we’re not even half way home; in fact we’ve only be on the water for two hours this morning.

By now, four hours into the slog, I am feeling panic bubble up the back of my neck, floating all rationale and calm up and out of some invisible seam in my head. My mind, hardly wandering, is gripped solely on its objective; gripped on embracing the suck; gripped like my cramping muscles. Catch, pressure, rotate, exit. Time, distance, speed. My mind is falling into that abyss of fear, the frustration, the incessant mental smackdown… and with it, draining the precious few positive thoughts left. I am so screwed!

Every time I look ahead, Priscilla seems unfazed by the experience, somehow living in a world of fuzzy bunnies only attainable through an enlightenment far greater than any I have achieved in this lifetime or any other.

We land in the sheltered bliss of Bixby Cove, sip a some of water and attempt to throw some calories down rather than up. The absence of wind is deafening. The constant pressure, the strain, the wind’s howling eddies forming in my ears, the salt spray with each stroke, the chill of sweat and exhaustion… gone. This is a snapshot in time. A molecule of the sublime qualities of being, wordless and lacking definition to the mind. We sit relieved and smiling under the towering concrete cathedral of the Bixby Bridge once again.

I am thinking things will get better as we approach our final point, Soberanes. Why I am thinking this is beyond me. The wind is getting worse. With each point we clear, the pressure mounts. The wind is dancing with my paddle blades – teasing and encouraging each blade’s independence from my control. I am no longer the dominant partner. We still have hours to go in deteriorating conditions.

Rocky Point comes after a two and a quarter mile slog across one of the most beautiful bays along the coast. Bordered to the east by an iconic bluff extending along Rocky Point, Palo Colorado and Rocky Creek, this bay is often tranquil and is the summation of California’s Coastal elegance. Today, I see none of it. I am aware of none of it. We just need to clear our next point. I am paying no attention to our Mother’s beauty. How many of these moments of grace have been lost to my inability to embrace the suck? How do I experience beauty when all I am feeling is exhaustion, frustration and fear. Sixty enlightened moments lost to an unenlightened soul.

This stopped being a sightseeing trip a long time ago. The conditions are too rough to enjoy a near-shore paddle. We are trying to shave off every foot we can from every mile just to get off the water sooner. A and B are the only two letters in our alphabet at this point.

Mush-mind. The face relaxes and droops slightly, the eyes soften, the body, working at hyper-overcapacity over time, begins to move without direction, without notice. The mind conjures fewer thoughts – a string of sentences melts to a string of words melting into words coalescing to one word and into timelessness. Words create time and time creates need.

Need creates words. Again. Relax the face, soften the eyes, move without direction, sentences to words, words to word, word to timelessness. Mush-mind; this is the objective when the body is suffering.

Final state of deterioration

We round Soberanes at 11.20 into absolute nuking winds and huge swells rolling in. If something goes sideways, a lost paddle, a swimmer, an injury, the wind will surely blow us into some place unrecoverable. There is no towing option, no resting option, no landing option, we have reached that final state of deterioration.

We are two and a quarter miles from the take out and we dare not let a blade leave the water. Each paddle stroke is like moving a snow shovel through mud. Every stroke guided by a forward shoulder, deep catch, pressure on the foot and a strong rotation from the body. Our reality, no paddle stroke too shitty, no words too foul, no hate too deep. It’s a shit show now and we just want to get the fuck off the water.

I keep an eye on Priscilla as she navigates around rock, crashing waves and reflected swell energy confused beyond recognition. Outside sets are difficult to anticipate. The intensity of the wind is reaching a comical state at this point. I know we’re going to make it if we can just stay off the rocks.

Priscilla arrives first and waits to land on the beach while I catch up. As I approach, I can feel the last seven and a half hours disappearing already. Memory is a funny thing that way. As the fear lifts, so too lifts the mind-fuck—the mind gripping tightly on the suck until it feels safe again.

Surfacing between exhaustion, thirst and hunger, I now begin to embrace the raw beauty and depth of the experience. Priscilla looks at me and says, “That was so fucking hard!”
We land our crafts; bodies unfold and we crawl out of our boats. Boats… extensions of our spines, vertebrae; connecting us to the sea.

We haul our boats and gear up the trail, load our cars and change into dry clothes. We say goodbye. Priscilla has another long slog ahead of her through central coast summer traffic along Highway One—more beautiful coastal scenery. Three hours later she will arrive at her home in the South Bay…surrounded by concrete, cars and humans. It will be weeks before Priscilla and I have an opportunity to talk about the Big Sur trip. I wonder about her insights and how they will manifest in other parts of her life.

I drive home 20 minutes inland from our takeout. Exhausted and speechless, I take stock of my being. My sense is that this has been deeply healing for both of us, in our own ways, in our own lives. Tonight I will fall into a fog of physical and mental repair.

Balanced and rejuvenated

Five days a week I make the same drive to work; sometimes in my car, sometimes on my bike. Today, Monday, as I cross the Salinas River, I feel different. My body feels whole, balanced and rejuvenated. My connection to the land feels vivid. I feel saturated in the water that surrounds us all. There is a deeper relationship now – a connection and admiration at an elemental level. I will not be spared from the wrath of the elements but I will be a more willing participant in their grace.

Arriving at work, after clocking in, the first order of business is to check the surf report to see what potentials exist for the coming weekend.

Catch, pressure, rotate, exit. Again.