Assateague Island National Seashore

Paddlers - Topher, c2g Dave, McWood, McCrea
Boats - Bell Rob Roy, Sawyer Loon, Kruger Sea Wind, Clipper Sea-1

Day 1 - Friday, April 22, 2005

We were looking for an opportunity to test paddle the decked boats with
a load and in some adverse conditions, and a 3-day paddle-in camper
along Chincoteague Bay behind the Assateague Island National Seashore
proved to be an ideal test-paddling venue.

Arriving at the Ranger Station on the island we were disheartened to
find that a Boy Scout troop was scheduled to fully occupy our intended
destination at the Pine Tree backcountry site and a parking lot
discussion about the relative merits of the Tingles Island site vs the
Green Run site settled us on Tingles.

Off to the Ferry Landing put in, where, to my relief, a startling
quantity of gear disappeared into our hulls. Accustomed to
heavy-packing open boats I was pleased and surprised to discover that
these closed-toppers could also handle a load.

I had coerced c2g into participating by promising that he could at
least start off paddling in the Sea-1. I must have forgotten that
promise, or perhaps that beauty of a boat just calls to me; whatever
the cause I somehow ended up packing my gear in the Sea-1. Sorry Dave.
No, really, I am deeply remorseful that I reneged on my promise and I
was burdened by shame as that sleek waterrocket glided along with
little effort.

The paddle in was quick and easy. The challenge of a moderate headwind
meant little to the paddling performance of our test craft, a brief
rain shower did nothing to dampen our spirits and we were soon at the
front door to the Tingles site.

Gear hauled, tents and tarps up and camp secured we headed back out for
an exploratory empty-boat paddle as the wind kicked it up a notch.
Making up the rules as we went along we agreed on a test paddling
stipulation for the duration - "You can't paddle the same boat
two times in a row".

Employing this rule as the weekend continued I believe we each worked
our way through the full lineup at least twice.

Heading south along the bayside proved a remarkable test paddling
venue; the wind gathering strength just as the weather radio had
predicted, blowing 25 knots, gusts to 30, straight up the bay on a long
fetch, with the shallow Chincoteague bay producing short, choppy wave
trains with occasional whitecaps.

Hop scotching from the lee of one peninsula to another we progressed
south as the wind continued to increase. Wind driven water in this
shallow bay is a force to be reckoned with, producing some nasty
paddling conditions, especially at the outboard tips of the peninsulas,
where the force of wind and wave combine to create an E-ticket ride.

The wind, depending on direction, also floods or drains the western
side of Assateague; on the Squatter-led Duckhead trip two weeks ago the
water was blown away from the island for a weekend of shallow water
boat walking. Our conditions were exactly the opposite - over the
course of three days we had what appeared to be high tide, higher tide
and really, high tide.

This abundance of water permitted us the luxury of gunkholing the
shallow guts and sloughs along the island's western edge. Espying the
wind tossed water beyond a final peninsula muckle-up we elected to head
east and explore the back of the Assateague backcountry.

One of the things I appreciate most about paddling Assateague is the
variety of topography on such a slender spit of barrier island.
Chincoteague Bay itself, ranging from calm and glasslike (rare) to
windswept and whitecapped (frequent). The convoluted western edge of
the island, with endless route choices in and out and through the
sloughs, guts and channels.

The inner island, with the welcome windbreak of pine and scrub, basin
ponds with reptiles and amphibians, birdlife from egrets, herons and
eagles to warblers, sparrows and wrens. Not to mention wild ponies and
sika deer.

The inter-dune zone, an undulating arena of off-worldly terrain, swept
clean of even the occasional footprint each day. The Atlantic
beachfront and surf zone, with the sound of waves, smell of sea, salt
spray slowly permeating all.

Our gunkholing exploration took us towards a lone Dr. Seuss tree
begging investigation. The tree in question was of less interest than
the dead pony, only slightly bloated, lying in the marsh grass. We
tried to get Mick to flop over atop her and force the air out, the
trick he showed us when packing his drybags, but he determined that she
still wouldn't fit in the Sea Wind even if fully deflated.

Wrapping our course back to the north and west we exited the Assateague
backwaters and remerged onto Chincoteague Bay with a stiffening wind
now dead astern.

A ruddered boat, wind dead astern and, hmmm, what's this - a golf
umbrella. Damn, these decked hulls will flat out move under even a
rudimentary sail. I've umbrella sailed canoes at Assateague many
times, but flying along under wind power in a decked boat - with a
rudder - made a world of difference. Sail, rudder, sit back, relax
and remember to wait up eventually for your companions. Now that's
the life.

Back acamp boat performance notes were written, ranging from Dependable
Dave's usual detailed and voluminous reports on every aspect of each
boat (he's a lock for that Reviewer of the Year Award once again at
the Christmas Party), to Mick's thoughtful and intelligent
head-to-head comparisons (I'm mystified though, what did you mean by
the repetitive comment "But it's still not a Pungo"?), to
Topher's insightful commentary, ranging from "It didn't leak"
to "Me like paddling". Despite his economy of written commentary
Topher's a lock to have his digital photographs published with the
review, so while Dave wins a cheesy wind-up duck toy as his reward
Topher will be cashing a check from Paddler. Life's like that
sometimes.

After an assortment of naps and noshes we headed back out for an
evening exploration of the guts and sloughs on the backdoor side of our
campsite. At least that was my intention - following Dave out towards
the open water of the Bay he hit the gas and was soon a diminishing
speck on the wave-tossed horizon. Topher and I muckled up, watched his
stern disappear and, having complete faith in Dave's open water
paddling abilities, turned about to prog the wind-protected confines on
the island interior once again.

One comment that was raised from time to time during the course of this
trip - having competent companions whom you can trust to make the
right decisions about the conditions and an honest assessment of their
own abilities permits the luxury of watching them solo off, knowing
they are in good hands.

Our evening explore slowly twilighted into a gibbous moon night paddle
and a return to a cheery fire back acamp for a fashion show that
included Topher in a kilt and Dave in striking blue floor-length
Dishdasha. And they wondered why I picked a tent site so far removed
from the rest of camp.

Day 2 - After a hearty breakfast of instant grits, instant coffee and
dried fruit bits (where oh where are Chef Davey and Chef Vic when I
need 'em?) we launched into the bay for a long exploratory paddle
with empty boats. Well, not exactly empty; I still carry enough stuff
on day paddling trips that the narrowing cockpit opening of the Sea-1
made reaching the furthest away fore-stored gear a bit of a challenge.
There, I finally found something I didn't like about the Sea-1.

Actually, I didn't start off in the Sea-1, as we kept to the day-old
tradition of swapping boats throughout the day. I don't remember what
I started off in; to quote Topher about our fine collection of decked
boats "Me like paddling"...they were all nice boats.

Once more into the wind. Not being accustomed to a rudder, or a sliding
seat, it took me a while to make the necessary adjustments and
discoveries, like remembering to slide the seat forward to trim into
the wind, and to realize that when heading directly into the wind the
rudder was unnecessary and, quite literally, a drag.

South we went, into the 25-knot winds and rolling chop. Mick soon
realized the value of keeping clean decks, as even the small lateral
bungie cord stretched across his deck deflected spray into his face.
Topher soon realized that he missed his bow-mounted dachshund spray
deflector. C2g remarked that a Pungo wouldn't throw up spray off the
bow deck like these darned composite boats.

South we went, seeking momentary shelter behind each peninsula's
leeward hideaway. South we went until we came to a long peninsula
fronting a large embayed shore and, peeking at the whitecaps between us
and the Boy Scout camp we had set out to terrorize, turned east to head
into some pine protected gut, seek shelter from the wind.

A quick check of the topo (a 20-year old taped together scroll of quads
covering the entire Assateague shoreline, dog eared, repeatedly
dampened and salt-spray covered - the most memorable map I own)
revealed that we might, in these wind-blown high water conditions, be
able to work our way back into the largest inter-island lake & channel
basin on Assateague, two miles long and nearly a half mile wide.

Paddling this hidden water has been a oft sought and oft denied target,
but a combination of extremely high water and a willingness to
repeatedly haul our boats across =BD" deep flooded marshland ("Chota
Mukluks are the best piece of boating gear in the last 100 years" -
Topher) saw us through.

Of course, a 2-mile long exposed lake oriented to the wind proved to be
as choppy, if not choppier, than the bayside, and the water itself
seemed to be flowing, not just wind driven. So, eh, whatta ya say we
turn and run with the wind.

Understand here that I wasn't exactly sure where we were on the topo.
A 20 year old topo of a constantly shifting barrier island is more of a
suggestion of possibilities that an accurate guide. And a high water
flooded marsh doesn't much resemble past recollections of the area.

Not that we were lost you understand. We were somewhere on the bayside
of Assateague. That I was sure of. I would occasionally consult the map
and smush a finger into it, declaring, "We're right about here"
just to reassure my companions. Right about here, somewhere on this
island. I think.

Having decided to run with the wind to the end of Lake Longsought I
fiddled with this and that and, my companions having pulled well ahead,
pointed the nose of my boat (the Loon, I think) downwind, dropped the
rudder, unfurled my umbrella and, laying back, paddle stowed, drinking
a beer and steering with my feet as the wind-filled umbrella hustled me
along, passed a Rob Roy, a Sea Wind and Sea-1 in short order. That look
wasn't smug; it was the face of contentment. OK, with a little smug.

Approaching the end of Lake Longsought I realized that I still wasn't
entirely sure of where we really were. But, catching a glimpse of open
water beyond a flooded fringe of salt grass to our west I deduced that,
if we had first paddled south up the bay, then paddled and portaged
east into Lake Longsought, then run north with the wind, a third change
of direction to the west ought to put us back on open water.

Exploring the inter-island lakes and sloughs is usually a matter of
aural navigation; listen for the sound of the surf - that's the
Atlantic edge. But with the wind and wave filling the air with bayside
music the sound of the surf was lost. Not that we were lost. I knew
right where we were. Somewhere on Assateague.

As I hauled my boat across yet another flooded marshland I heard an
excited squeak from astern. "The horse, the horse" cried Mick,
spotting his beloved dead pony pal festering in the marsh. We had done
it, the first circumnavigation of Dead Pony Point. I expect my
admittance letter to the Explorers Club shall arrive in the mail any
day now.

Back on the open bay I could see, faintly in the distance, the Tingles
Island campsite marker and once again unfurled my umbrella sail and
surfed waves until the wind became too strong and threatened to destroy
my $7.99 sail rig.

I've said it before and I'll say it again - I want an easily
unfurled, easily stored, hand held sail rig based on a freaking
umbrella. Maybe a different shape than a circle, maybe a transparent
panel so I can see where I'm going, definitely a stay-stop to keep it
from fully inverting, but screw all that set up and mast steps and lee
board and crap - I just want to capture the rare tailwind and I can
do that with an umbrella. Add in a foot control rudder and woo-wee, I
still have one hand free to hold a beer.

Camp once again. Topher and I set off on a beachwalk, heading south
along the surf line before turning west to poke about the inter-dune
otherworldliness. We soon spotted c2g and Mick, strolling the beach
like some perverse Cialis advertisement, no doubt discussing the
purchase of a Pungo built for two.

Interrupting their romanticizing boat design fantasies we returned to
camp for an evening's paddle, this time probing back into the far
reaches of the guts and sloughs to the immediate south of our campsite.


Probing the far reaches of a barely boat wide channel Mick proved that
he was smarter than he looks by not attempting to back the 17'9" of
Sea-1 out for a quarter mile, c2g demonstrated the little recognized
ability of the Sea Wind rudder to collect squaw wood for the fire and
Topher challenged an Assateague stallion for herd dominance. I of
course was the very picture of proper deportment as usual.

Heading back out the gut we spotted an abandoned hunt camp, hidden in
the piney wood, dilapidated and falling into disarray. Irresistible,
even if it meant another series of flooded marsh drag overs. Knowing
that any hunt camp must have had easy and open access to the bay we
headed west after our dilapidation exploration and were soon back on
Chincoteague Bay, roiling back to camp with the wind and waves once
again behind us.

Back in camp the usual shenanigans transpired. Beers were drunk, Sailor
Jerry was bid adieu. We spent a short rain spell huddled under
Topher's disco tarp - a lightweight Cooke 10x10 decorated with
various colored glowsticks. A fire was raised; a game of great moments
in Pungo history was played - George Washington crossing the Delaware
in a Pungo. And the Lord said to Noah, build me a Pungo 40 cubits by 80
cubits and gather together two of every pumpkinseed. The wreck of the
Edmund Fitzpungo. Damn the Pungos, full speed ahead...

About the time we had a good blaze going someone (I think it was me)
decided to go have a look at the boats by moonlight. We're not going
paddling; we're just going down to look at the boats.

Heading down to the launch Topher remarked, "Yeah, we'll just look
at the boats" and proceeded to walk to a boat, hop in and paddle out
into the bay. And one by one we all followed. "Just a short paddle,
not far". Yeah, right.

Damn those decked boats are fast and easy paddling - next time I
looked up we were halfway to the town of Public Landing on the western
shore. Not that I don't think about visiting Public Landing when I
look across the bay, but, uh, well gee I wish I at least had a PFD on.
And maybe some cash - there might be a bar in Public Landing.

Reduced to making logical decisions, following my head instead of my
heart, we turned about and headed back to camp.

Day 3

Awakening Sunday morning to sunshine on my tent and birds chirping in
the trees I realized that there were four beautiful decked boats
waiting for an early morning paddle and, since we were in no rush to
depart, turned over and went back to sleep.

Eventually rousing myself from the comfort of my Thermarest and
sleeping bag I shuffled slowly around the campsite only to discover
that my companions were already breaking camp and half packed. Or, as
they say, half in the bag.

Not wanting to miss the sight of Mick getting frisky with his drybags I
packed it up and hauled my gear down to the landing. Calculating my
boat rotation based on the "can't paddle the same boat two times in
a row" stipulation I realized that I was slated for the Sea-1 again.
Well whadda ya know, you'd almost think I planned it that way.

Packed, loaded and back on the water our route out would be all running
with the wind. I took this opportunity to get deliberately sloppy with
the return route in the Sea-1. Paddling open boats in the Chincoteague
chop often means employing a series of chess-like strategic moves in
sequence "Head a few points off the wind here, hit the tip of that
peninsula just outboard, tack back in, hide in the lee there"

Instead I just let her go, put her sideways in the waves and chop and
was pleased to find the Sea-1 still performed beautifully - still
solid, still fast, still dry. And yeah, I'm sticking with that story
- I deliberately got sloppy and sideways to the waves to test the
Sea-1 with a load in adverse downwind conditions. Yeah, that it, I
didn't just space out and end up sideways in the chop - it was a
test.

Arriving too soon back at the Ferry Landing we were greeted by a hot
French-Canadian stripper. Uh, I mean we were warmly greeted by a
French-Canadian woman paddling a strip-built kayak. Nicely constructed
with beautiful sleek lines. The kayak was nice too.

We unscrolled the topo and showed her the various designated campsites
and wind-sheltered routes and wondered why oh why we hadn't planned
to stay an extra day. As they say, "C'est la vie". Also
"C'est plus qu'un crime, c'est une faute". Also "Let me
show you a trick for deflating drybags - OK, pretend I'm the
drybag..."

Packed and racked and on the road, no trip to the eastern shore is
complete without a stop at the Unicorn Rare and Used Book Shop, where
the entire back row is old and out of print nautical books, with the
occasional odd canoeing or kayaking book or river guide mixed in. Once
Mick found the woodworking section I thought we'd never leave, and I
forced myself to avoid the map room upstairs.

The Unicorn is a traditional stop for me en route home from the shore,
as is a stop at Holly's Restaurant for some calorie-packing home
cooking to carry me across the inevitable bay Bridge traffic jam.

Final thoughts on the trip - Boy, I really like that Sea-1, and it
sure would look nice on my boat rack.