Dean McCully

May 10, 2003

 

It was a good day to spit in the eye of death.  And it was a good day to re-christen a kayak.
Like Hannibal of olden times, I throttled my recalcitrant beast through the "Alps" of San Francisco. This day, my "beast" was a Chevy Van, and today she lugged my yellow two-man sit-on-top kayak, dubbed "Banana". I was on my way to the 17th annual Tsunami Rangers' Sea Gypsy Race starting on Miramar beach. I would ride my boat through the treachery of the world famous surfing spot known as "Mavericks". And I would return. Or I would die in the attempt. 

Valhalla
I savored the salubrious sea breeze as I pulled up to the Nordic Mansion of world famous Tsunami Commander Michael Powers. This Tsunami Ranger's mansion is the kayaker's equivalent of Valhalla and entry is limited to gods and bona fide lunatic extreme-kayakers. I stood at the gate, looking in with awe. I had not proven myself worthy of entry into Valhalla.  Yet.

Lord of the Talisman
My kayaking partner, Rainer, stood beside me, slightly less thunderstruck.  Though not an official Ranger, Rainer is the Tsunami's official metallurgist/alchemist/jeweler/Lord-of-the-Talisman ring. He proudly showed me his latest masterwork: the official Tsunami ring, a solid gold twisted-rope-looking creation brandishing the Ranger's trademark crossed paddle and a trident. Rainer is a specialist in all things kayak. This latest of Rainer's Talismans should adequately protect us from Mother Ocean's wrath this day. I hoped. 

...and no biting, and no kicking, and no sinking each others' boats, and no...
Eric Soares, co-founder and co-Commander of the Rangers, summoned us to the beach for the recital of the rules.  Twenty-three paddlers locked arms on the beach, amalgamated into a daisy chain of electrified vivacity.  Eric stressed that "Safety is job one!" as he repeated the tale of one kayak disintegrating in the death-soup of Mavericks last year. That unhappy Sea Gypsy paddler swam for 1.5 hours before his absence was noticed. Such hypothermic catastrophe was NOT going to be repeated this year, Eric assured us, as he secretely rubbed his own Talisman.

Mother Ocean
A venerable Shaman reverently approached our kayaker's daisy chain with an abalone shell containing salt water. Our blood is Mother Ocean's blood, or so his morphology reminded us. From Mother Ocean our blood sprang, to Mother Ocean our blood will someday return.  "Wisdom, and a Pure Heart" he intoned as he passed among us with purifying salt water. "Wisdom, and a Pure Heart" as a soupcon of briny fluid baptized our head and chest.

Hannibal L. and the Carrion Birds
Hordes of Ranger-groupies descended like carrion birds clamoring for carnage. But the flock quailed at the appearance of Rainer donning his full-face-cage helmet and looking like another Hannibal from slightly more modern lore. There was fire in Rainer's eyes and flare in his nostrils as he fondled his Talisman and anticipated atrocities he'd commit on Mother Ocean this day. 

Karma
The Rangers, attired in red-flamed Tsunami death-helmets, approached the starting line with an explosives-tipped arrow and a black powder musket. The incendiary arrow detonated overhead to ward off malevolent spirits. The black powder gun's report snapped us to karmic attentiveness. With feral abandon, we plunged into the frigid waters of the Miramar's Pacific. We were off. 

Into the Breach.  Of Bisque.
I steadied Banana's bow in the broiling bisque to give her time to acclimatize herself to Rainer's fierce aura. Gracefully, I ducked under Rainer's buzz-saw paddling to avoid pre-launch disfigurement. I leapt into my back seat.  Our launch was perfectly timed between monster sets and we were on our way. Goaded by our impudent incursion, Mother Ocean lashed back with a furious wave of counter-maulings. But we countered her mêlée by repelling onslaught after onslaught of the Ocean's worst gnarl. We became a mechanized water-borne dragoon of sea-death. And we were prevailing. So far. 

Just Scream If You Can Hear Me
This first leg of our race lead us 100 yards out to sea, around John Lull's  pre positioned safety-kayak, then back to the beach. This short test of seamanship separated the kayaking wheat from the chaff and would determine who would be allowed to continue. If we could not complete the 100 yard round trip unscathed, then we would not be allowed to continue to paddle through Mavericks. Rainer and I and Banana clambered up Everests of water. We rumbled past John's boat brilliantly. We surfed back to shore and gently sidled Banana onto our starting point with a textbook beach landing. By settling back onto the sand, we had earned the right to face the open ocean. We turned, we re-launched, we kicked in the gates of Oceanic Hell. Banana bucked over the incendiary lather as Rainer bellowed, "Dean, are you still back there?"  I screamed, "Hell Yeah I'm still back here!  Paddle, Man, Paddle!"  We were on our way to our 6 mile trek through Hades and back. 

Truth or Consequences?
The sleeker, faster boats pulling far ahead of us. We were nonplused: seven other  world class kayakers were out of the race because of fractured boats and broken spirits. There were only 13 of us now, and we were heading into the deep. But, proudly, the ungainly Banana was holding her own as we swept past the harbor. The siren call of lighthouse bells beckoned us to safety. A quick turn to the right would usher us into the shelter of the Marina's safest brewpub. A quick turn to the turn left would mean possible death. "Mavericks or Brew?" I yelled to Captain Rainer. Silent as always, Rainer stoically executing a suicidal feat of mutually-destructive gesticulation. He gracefully dipped his paddle and twisted us left.  Mavericks it would be!  No safety today, Boys!  No safety today!

The Devil's Ballet
Cliffs to the right, boulders to the left, razor clams beneath us, ramparts of water ahead and behind. We were in the rocky "Boneyard" reef of Mavericks, black diamond kayaking at its most macabre.  Implausible reef breaks, crazy eddies, vulgar refractions, foul reflections, unpredictable vortices. One false move and we were chum. We parried to port, we dodged to starboard. We blasted skyward on 15 foot rocket waves. We furrowed through watery trap doors. We spiraled up with explosive swiftness. We pirouetted down to bounce off of the razor-sharp reef. We bucked and lurched and inched forward, a lifetime a stroke, until we finally broke free of the craggy clutches of the Boneyard. Victoriously, turned toward Ross' Cove, the halfway point of our deadly tango with Mother Ocean. 

Flanking Retrograde
Two choices faced us: up the cliff to the dishonor of capitulation, or back through Mother Ocean's wrath. Swallowing our last ration of potable water, Captain Rainer declared, "Wrath it is,"  and he shoved off toward looming kayaking martyrdom. An impassible frenzied pandemonium of maniacal hydrodynamics was assembling in the Boneyard. Raucous oceanic malefactors were preparing a blood-reclaiming fête for Mother Ocean.  But a quick series of masterful brace/rudder strokes propelled us through a flanking maneuver away from the deadly revelry, and we flailed toward the outer periphery of Mavericks. Incensed at our evasion of her grotesque carnival, Mother Sea dispatched 30 foot briny leviathans to the outer Mavericks to thwart our audacious escape. Too little, too late. We were past her reach and her malevolent ire wilted under the countenance of our resolve. 

Rebirth
Nordic mythology has it that twelve Norse gods were invited to a banquet in Valhalla.  Loki, the god of mischief, had been barred from the guest list but crashed the party anyway. His brazen and unanticipated arrival in Valhalla brought the total god-count to 13. By a providential stroke of irony, Rainer and I had ridden our vessel to the 13th-place finish into kayaking-Valhalla that day. Mere weekend-warrior paddling hacks, no invited gods were we. But we stood in Valhalla sipping nectar because of the integrity of our boat. Humbled and grateful, we thus re-christened her:

Rainer, Loki, and I hope to see you at Valhalla-cum-Miramar next year!

Dean