day zero, launch day

& the Bellingham surf ski club

In high school I was a track runner— before every race I would hover at the finish line with my stomache in a knot, full of worry. Like I was going to vomit.

I feel like that now, except there’s no start whistle, no outlet for that adrenaline. Just the promise of a stiff south in a place I’ve never paddled, in a loaded boat I’ve never paddled. And a group I haven’t overnight paddled with.

Launch points are places where you meet the people who would try and talk you out of a trip. (I’ve been that person, the one who comes up to chat and make sure you aren’t doing something stupid).

At the launch we meet the Bellingham surf ski club, a friendly group of guys with ample experience in the bay, and warnings. It’s always roughly here that I really wonder if I know what I’m getting into. Most sea kayakers tend to be older and by nature more experienced— expeditions and ACA certs are costly things— so when you see younger people on the beach with beat up boats there’s often a healthy does of skepticism.

As much experience as I have I don’t have experience *here* and that’s important. Packing took longer than expected and I’m writing this from the launch point with butterflies in my stomach. Mostly I’m worried about paddling loaded boats. I’m worried about crossings. I’m worried about loaded boats in waves. I’m worried my spray skirt won’t fit (it fit). I’m worried my worry will boil over and become anxiety, that the damage of what happened on isle Royale will mix with my current worry and become its own beast. I’m worried if I don’t go, if I don’t do this I’ll never do anything ever again, I’ll be content on the couch in an apartment with a yearly lease and real job. (All of that sounds wonderful here sitting on the beach).

I am worried I an wildly under qualified for this kind of trip (is anyone ever qualified for the ocean?).

We sit on the beach long enough that it goes from kinda gnarly to a light breeze.

By the time we make our first, three mile crossing the water is mostly calm. In the span of about two hours, I went from the most unsure I’ve ever been about this trip, to feeling great in a boat, and just happy to be out here, come what may.

A little harbor seal followed us across, trailing behind and poking his head out of the water, like he was wondering what the kayaks were doing so back early in the season.

Harbor seals; I’m exporting from my camera to my phone then to Substack so the quality of some photos for this trip will be wildly degraded— in the fall I’ll reprocess everything and share more then!

We made it to our campsite, hauled up gear (gear hauling is the bad part of kayaking), and set up camp. Boats needed to be moved up past the high tide line and tied off— last thing we want is to loose a boat in the night.

We traipsed around the bluff a little and watched harbor seals play in the cove below. Dinner was pasta pesto, and bedtime was just past dark.

In the end, the surf ski guys with their warnings were on and off the water in about a course of 30 minutes— I had been sure that the wind would die and the bay would iron out by the time we were done packing, and I had been right. (This time, I am often wrong.)

But the hour or two we waited for the wind to change gave me a little more confidence— we’re on expedition time. We don’t have anything to prove, or anywhere to be. There’s no reason to paddle before we’re ready— we’re here to have a good, safe time outside, not to send it up to Alaska come hell or high water.

If we’re out here for a month and need to go home for some reason, that’s okay.  If we take a “wind bound” day that we totally could’ve paddled, that’s also okay.

Pre race jitters or not, it’s not a race— it’s an expedition, and the goal is just to get out there. I can’t think of a better way to spend a summer.

All of the things that went wrong today!!!

This section of the post is for paying subscribers! Hello Stranger is a reader funded publication. Paying subscribers help keep trail guides and most essays free for everyone!