complacency

[Phil Allen]

This just came across MIT's paddling list serve. Be careful out there.

From San Fran last thursday:

On 1/13/2014 at 12:44 PM John Boeschen <

jboeschen@mac.com

> wrote:

?Grandpa got run over by a freighter

Paddling home from Red Rock Thursday eve?

-inspired by ?Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer,? Randy Brooks 1979

"Oh merde," this a loose translation of an expletive heard on the bay

Thursday night.

The Mayor and I are 0.8 miles west of Red Rock returning to Jailhouse. The

time's 8 PM. We're paddling on the south side of the Richmond-San Rafael

Bridge just inside the outer fringe of light thrown out by the bridge.

We're crossing the shipping channel.

Paddling side-by-side in the channel, we?re musing on the invisibility of

freighters and tankers at night, their bow lights no more visible than the

workings of big government. We're not just musing, mind you, we're

scanning north and south for the big ships, looking for their tell, shore

lights winking on and off when the big vessels pass between our line of

sight and the shore.

This is how we've been able to spot the big guys these last 15 years. But

not tonight. Tonight we don't see her until she's 10 seconds away from

T-boning us. We're able to see her only because she's just entered the

outer fringe of the bridge's light fall.

That first brief sighting is our ?Oh merde? moment. It could?ve been the

TransAmerica Pyramid towering over us, the sheer shock of what we see

indiscriminate. But it?s not the TransAmerica Pyramid and we don?t waste

time staring.

The Mayor bolts straight ahead, acting on pure survival instinct, hoping

to cross in front of the freighter before he's T-boned. My survival

instinct kicks in, too, but mine is colored by an overlay of law and

order: maritime protocol says not to cut in front of another boat.

I back-paddle, painting by the numbers, staying within the lines of

protocol. I'm not going to cross in front of that freighter. The Mayor,

not bound by numbers and more of an Expressionist, paddles across those

lines and past the freighter to safety. I do not.

I might've made it to safety if I'd continued paddling backwards. Instead,

I try to turn my boat around. My boat's quick, nimble, maneuverable. But

not quick, nimble, and maneuverable enough to accomplish in 2 seconds what

normally takes 5 seconds. The 154-knot wake from the freighter's bow hits

me broadside.

Hanging upside down under water, here's the first thought to pop into my

noggin: airbags are a good invention. The second thought to pop into my

head's more image than thought: a line of bold Tibetan script, inked dark

on handmade paper. I'd seen both the script and the paper earlier that

afternoon in a Buddhist institute dedicated to Tibetan language and

research in Berkeley. I don't know how the Tibetan translates, just that

its image is calming, reassuring.

A huge freighter is passing within reach, and I'm feeling calm and

peaceful. Imagine that. I don't rush to pull my sprayskirt off and swim to

the surface. Walking my fingers around the outside of the coaming, feeling

the texture of the sprayskirt, is pleasing. Sensual. It's a slow walk my

fingers take. By the time they converge on the release loop at the skirt's

head, my lungs have had enough Tibetan bliss and are clamoring for air.

On the surface, my lungs happy, I'm a paddle length away from the ship's

hull, a long unbroken train of metal. Under water, I wondered if the ship

would pull me further down and toward her keel line. She didn't. On the

surface, I wonder what'll happen when the stern goes by, what mischief the

turning props have in mind. The stern goes by without mischief. I'm

thankful for that.

The freighter continues on her course, none the wiser of what's just

transpired, of me bobbing in the cold water, of the Mayor?still in his

boat, untouched by the freighter's bow wake?paddling to my rescue.

Business as usual.

The Mayor finds me quickly. Business as usual now is to get me back into

my boat. Accomplishing this is a simple rescue technique: the T-rescue.

Position the swamped boat at a right angle to the cockpit of the rescuer's

boat. Push down on the stern of the swamped boat so its bow goes up onto

the rescuer's cockpit. Make sure the cockpit of the swamped boat is facing

down so the water runs out. Slither out of the bay into the boat, pump out

any remaining water, paddle home, and Bob?s your uncle. Simple.

No major storms the last 12 months have left Toilet Bowl Beach on Red Rock

firewood-challenged. To compensate, I bring kindling from home. Squeezing

the kindling into the small-volume stern of my 14-foot-long boat requires

releasing air from the stern float bag. An inflated float bag displaces a

volume of water equal to its own volume. A deflated float bag doesn't

displace any water.

I don't inflate my stern float bag before leaving Red Rock for Jailhouse.

My bad. Instead of handling a boat only partially filled with water, the

Mayor has to handle a boat overwhelmed by water (to my credit, the float

bag in my bow is fully inflated). A gallon of bay water weighs

approximately 8 lbs 6 oz. I don't know how many gallons, but my swamped

boat holds a backache's worth.

No matter our efforts, whenever we right the partially drained boat?hull

down, cockpit up?the boat sinks below the water's surface, an infinity

pool across the cockpit. I attempt to climb in, the boat sinks deeper. And

so it goes.

The water's cold, barely breaking 50 degrees Fahrenheit. I've only been in

15-20 minutes, but I'm starting to fatigue, starting to feel sluggish.

(Without the 10 lbs of insulation I put on over the holidays, I might not

have lasted as long as I did.) My lips a robust blue, we call it quits,

call the Coast Guard on the Mayor's VHF.

The Coast Guard arrives 10 minutes later, but the Larkspur ferry beats

them to the rescue, plucking me from the bay 5 minutes earlier. Though he

doesn't need the lift, the Coast Guard hauls the Mayor aboard their vessel

along with my boat, pulled from the bay by three fit crew members.

The crew of both boats treat us graciously and professionally,

transporting us to the Larkspur ferry terminal, staff from the terminal

driving us to our cars at Jailhouse. We can't sing their praises loud

enough.

So ? what did I learn from our adventure? Here're some initial thoughts:

If, like mine, your boat doesn't have bulkheads separating bow and stern

from cockpit, use float bags and keep them inflated. To add an extra layer

of immersion security, I'm going to experiment using a sea sock to limit

the amount of water my boat takes on.

Carry a VHF marine radio. Calling the Coast Guard on channel 16 cut short

the time the water had hold of me. On future paddles to Red Rock, I plan

to call the port authority on channel 14 to check for ships approaching

the Richmond-San Rafael Bridge, backing that up with channel 13 to contact

the bridge of ships heading our way.

I have an app on my iPhone, Ship Finder, that tracks ships on the bay in

real time. I didn't use it Thursday. I will on future paddles.

The Mayor and I might have seen the freighter earlier if we had been

paddling closer to the bridge, more light from the bridge illuminating the

bay around us.

From what I experienced up close with the freighter, I think it a rare

event when a large ship actually collides head-on with a kayak, the ship's

bow wake pushing the kayak aside before the bow strikes it. For close

encounters like mine?2 to 5 feet from the approaching ship's bow?I'd guess

the shorter the boat, the less likely a collision.

I experienced no sucking vortices at the ship's bow and stern, wasn't

pulled under the hull, or chewed up by propeller blades. That was good. I

don?t know if these outcomes are true in all encounters. I do know that I

don?t intend to field test their validity any time soon.

Have a good story prepared before going home and explaining to your family

how you managed to get run over by a freighter.

Stats

Date: Thursday, 9 January 2014.

Distance: Not all the way.

Speed: Shocking.

Time: Passed by in a flash.

Spray factor: Manufactured.

Dessert: Apple slices dipped in melted semi-sweet chocolate.

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