Island to Island

July 8, 2011—The day before launch

So I've done all the preparations and I've done all my training and I'm all set to go. The only thing on my list that did not get done is that pesky Eskimo roll. I don't quite have my roll down yet but it is not due to a lack of quality instruction. I'm so lucky, I waited until I was almost 50 years old to learn to roll, but I had the honor of having two excellent teachers. My first two rolling lessons were with none other than competitive kayakers, Davey and Jennifer Hearn! They are two of the coolest, most generous and most patient people ever. I think I'm ready for the trip and I think I have all the gear I need. I have a tent, sleeping bag, clothes, stoves, food, sleeping pad, fishing pole, rain gear, towel, hat, sunblock, extra shoes, first aid kit, book, maps, toiletries, and jugs for lots of water. Amazingly, I was able to get all that gear into my kayak. So I'm all ready but I have another little problem to solve. Since we've decided to call this an Island to Island trip we are committed to pass through the white water between here and Fletchers Cove. This section of river is not suitable for a fully loaded sea kayak. The solution, we climb into a white water tandem canoe and run Little Falls in that and then switch boats once we are safely in the tidal portion of the mighty Potomac. The butterflies in my gut are setting in, but I'm very excited about this trip. Not only is this going to be my first time all the way down the tidal Potomac but it will also be the first time that I will be running Little Falls Rapids! Yeehaw!!!

July 9, 2011-- Day 1

The day was full of promise and I jumped into action as soon as I was awake. I had all my gear ready to go but we still had to get the sea kayaks and other stuff down to Fletchers boathouse. My partner for the trip would be Whit Overstreet and our plan was to use Whit’s tandem whitewater canoe to get us through the rapids between Sycamore Island and Fletchers Cove. I was excited and nervous. I had never done a long kayak trip and I was about to run Little Falls for the first time. Plus, to add to my butterflies, the river was up to 3.5 feet, slightly more volume than I had envisioned for my first trip through the falls. The weather was clear but hot and I was dripping sweat as I returned to the Island after loading the kayaks onto Whit’s truck. I sent out my last-minute emails, locked up the house, and headed to the river. One of the coolest things about this trip was that I did not need to get into an airplane or even a car to begin the journey. All I had to do was walk out my front door and get into Whit’s canoe and off we went. Peter Bross, a kayaker and board member of Potomac Riverkeeper joined us in his boat as we set off from Sycamore Island.

The white-water boat that we were in was not designed for flat water and the first ¾ mile of slack water to get to the dam was slow. It did give Whit and I time to get used to paddling together, though. I hadn’t known Whit for very long and this would be our first time together in a canoe, and we were about to run Little Falls! We reached the Brookmont dam and did the legal thing, portaged around it. It wasn’t a difficult carry and when we reached the other side of the dam we found Olympic Canoeist, Davey Hearn, sitting there waiting for us in his racing C1 canoe. Compared to the canoe that we were in, Davey’s boat looked like a Maserati. I was glad to have Davey along with us as I ventured into this part of the river where I had never been before. As a matter of fact I don’t think I could have picked a better group of guys to be out there with. I was still a little nervous, but I was really happy to finally be doing the falls and I was feeling very fortunate about the circumstances.

From the dam we headed toward the gates of the slalom course in the old feeder canal. I wasn’t thinking of doing the slalom course, I just wanted to keep heading downstream. But, since we were with Davey, we had to go back up and run the gates in our canoe. I was glad that we did, it was fun and it gave Whit and I more time to get used to paddling together, tandem whitewater canoeing is not easy. From there we went around the front of High Island. This is called Z channel and interestingly the current reverses here and we were pointed upstream toward Sycamore Island as we navigated the class 2 rapid. We picked our way down stream through the rocks until the river narrowed and we were in rolling waves cruising fast past High Island on our left. Along the way we passed kayak legend, Tom McEwan, giving a class. Davey, being the celebrity that he is, went over to chat.

We did a long, quarter mile of big waves and then had to stop at a sand bar and dump out

Tandem kayak down Little Falls

all the water we took on. So far our canoe was performing well and I was thrilled to be at the precipice above the falls. We stopped to scout the rapids as Davey played on the waves looking like a ballet dancer on the water. We scouted the falls and decided on the line we would take. I really appreciated Whit’s calm and positive disposition and I was glad to have him there to nudge me out of my comfort zone. We climbed back into the boat and, as if to say, “Joe you got this”, I saw a large red-tailed hawk cross the river just a hundred yards away. Then, with six great blue herons lining the rocks on the shore, we plunged into the torrent of deep, canoe-eating holes and corkscrew waves. We narrowly avoided the first hole and headed toward the Maryland bank. We paddled hard as we leaned downstream to make the crossing. It was alarming to see just how close our downstream gunwale was to the surface of the river, but thankfully, with Whit’s expertise, we straightened the canoe out in time to hit the corkscrew wave just right. We dug hard to get into an eddy at the end of the run, and, once safely inside the eddy, we flipped. The water felt good in the heat on the midday sun and the canoe was easily righted and dumped. I was ecstatic! I had run the falls for the first time and survived! Also, we had just passed through the fall line that separates two physiographic zones, the piedmont and the coastal plain. From now on we would be navigating the tidal waters of the coastal plain.

We said goodbye to Davey as he headed to the take-out and we continued down river another mile or so to Fletchers. We had promised to meet friends and family at Fletchers at noon. It was now 12:30 and I hoped that my mother wasn’t getting too worried. We were greeted at Fletchers by a dozen or so well-wishers who then patiently sat around and waited for us to get reorganized. My Mom brought a watermelon and we ate it as we packed our kayaks for the first time. Whit had just bought his used kayak two nights before and this would be his first time in the boat. My situation was a little better. I had bought my kayak three months before so I had time to try it out and take it on a couple of half day trips, but neither of us has had much experience with touring/sea kayaks. Neither of us had ever rolled one, for example. We didn’t spend anytime planning food or distributing gear. I brought the stoves and cooking utensils and Whit was burdened with all the cameras and smart phones. I think Whit’s boat was a lot heavier than mine though, mostly because he chose to bring a pantry full of canned foods where as I went with mostly dehydrated meals. Whit also carried a lot of water, which turned out to be the smarter thing to do. I was risking heat stroke just because I didn’t want to carry extra weight. We donned our big floppy hats and our scarves to protect us from the harsh sun. Whit even wore a mask to protect his face, which, along with his shades, made him look like some kind of eco-terrorist. I lathered on the sunblock, and after posing for a few photos, we set off from the shore, being careful not to cross the lines of the kids that were fishing there.

Our friend, Harry Lewis, joined us in his canoe as we left Fletchers and he kept us company all the way down to Key Bridge. We were at the western tip on Washington D.C as we shoved off and it was hard to believe that we were in D.C. proper, being surrounded by high banks of rugged forest with no signs of civilization anywhere. It was a Saturday afternoon so the river was very busy with boats, and it had a festive atmosphere. There were other kayakers there, mostly people who had rented craft from Jack’s boathouse. There were yachts there, happily anchored around the three sisters islands. People were everywhere, swimming, relaxing and enjoying the river. We even saw the first of a new breed of paddler, the stand-up paddler or SUP. It wasn’t until we saw Key Bridge that it was evident that we were in a metropolis. Here the land stretched out flat in front of us and, even though we had forested Roosevelt Island on our right, it was clear that we were in the city. The Georgetown waterfront was busy and we had to contend with an increase in motorboat traffic, including jetskiers. We stopped occasionally to take pictures and tweet them. We stopped at one spot, just before Memorial Bridge that was a combined storm water and sewer release into the river. We continued on and, unlike before when I was waiting while Whit took pictures, I now found myself trying to keep up with him as we made the first of many river crossings. It was becoming clear who the emerging leader of the expedition might be.

Whit and I had crossed the river just below Memorial Bridge, which landed us very near the bike path on the Virginia side. We drifted toward the airport with the parkland to our right, staying close to the shore. There was so much activity going on around us with tourist boats, joggers, cyclists, fishermen, and speedboats. Not to mention the metro trains and airplanes passing overhead. We tried to take it all in but we were still getting used to our kayaks and our minds were preoccupied with trying to keep them going straight. It seemed that as the river widened, the wind picked up, and we were soon fighting a slight crosswind. Also, we had been in our boats for over two hours at this point and, even though my arms were tied, it was my legs that were screaming for a break. We passed Roaches Run and then the airport. While passing the airport I noticed that there wasn’t any barrier or vegetation to keep the dirty storm water runoff of the runway from spilling into the river. (We later learned that there are plans to extend the current runway 1000 feet into the downstream side of the river.) We paddled across Four Mile Run Bay and took a much-needed break at the Washington Sailing Marina.

After a short break and a long drink of water we headed for Alexandria. We passed the tourist piers with their parks but we also passed the Torpedo factory and other relics from Alexandria’s industrial past. We passed the, still operating, coal burning power plant that sits right on the river’s edge and has to have booms in the water to keep leaking oil from getting into the mainstream of the river. We also passed the Ford Pier, where there once stood a Ford assembly plant.

The out-going tide was very evident now as we passed under the Woodrow Wilson Bridge. The sound of a band playing faded away as we glided along in the fading light of the late afternoon. All we had to do now was to cross a small bay and we could rest for the night. I could see the marina in the distance, about a mile, so I headed straight for it. But Whit had a detour in mind. I didn’t know this but at the very southern tip of D.C., at a place called Jones point on the Virginia side, there is an old lighthouse. When I say lighthouse I mean a house with a light on the top. It was perfectly placed as a guide for ships coming upriver. Sadly, the land around it is eroding and the house is in decay. We finally started our final crossing of the day but, as we learned over and over, everything was further away than it looked and it took a long time to get to Bell Haven Marina. We didn’t get off the river until after 7:00 pm.

I followed Whit as we made our way past the sailing vessels and onto the boat ramp. Whit was hoping to meet someone named Chip who ran the Marina and who had promised to give us a place to sleep for the night. The Marina was abuzz with activity when we arrived. There were people sitting around, picnicking and fishing and playing. I got a real sense of community as we hung out there at the table near the work shed. We found Chip, a shirtless guy about 40 years old; with long, dirty blonde dread locks and a permanent tan. He was very friendly and welcoming and was obviously very much at home at the docks of the marina. Chip runs the marina and the sailing school and has been hanging around Bell Haven since he was a kid. Chip offered us a beer and we sat there resting and taking in all the sights of the busy marina. Soon we were being offered homemade pickles and fresh zucchini casserole! We met Peter Hume, an impressive man in his eighties, who still went sail boarding and who had also spent many years near this marina. It was cool meeting these people that personified the place, like meeting a lobsterman in Maine, if you know what I mean. We were told that we could sleep in the Canadean, a twenty-five foot sailboat with new cushions in the cabin. Peter Bross picked us up later and we headed to dinner in Alexandria. Chip and his friends however, were preparing to sail out and watch the fireworks at National Harbor.

July 10, 2011—Day 2

When I crawled out of the Canadean at 8:30 the next morning, the marina was already abuzz with activity. The first person I saw was Chip, who looked as if he had already been up for a while. The next person I saw was a guy named Ned. Ned was just coming off of the river with a boatload of trash. When I say boatload I mean boatload. I could hardly see Ned in the cockpit of his recreational kayak. He had a huge industrial sized trash bag on his bow and an old muddy trash can full of plastic bottles on his stern. In his lap he had an old charcoal grill and some other bits of garbage, also completely covered in mud. Ned was on a single-handed mission to clean up the trash from the river and he was just coming in from one of his daily excursions. He had some cool bumper stickers on his kayak too; “There is no Planet B”, “Question Consumption”, and my favorite, “Eat More Geese”.

There was also another kayaker there that morning but this woman had a different agenda altogether. Apparently she was training to do some kayaking off the coast of Greenland. She had a small and very light kayak and a short, straight, wooden paddle. She also had a special cold-water skirt that seemed to double as a hooded wetsuit. I’m sure it worked well in the cold climates of the north Atlantic but on this hot and muggy day in D.C. it looked really hot and masochistically uncomfortable.

We milled around the Marina for a while. I made coffee and oatmeal by a rock on the waters edge, looking upriver at the huge, Woodrow Wilson Bridge. A group of birders from Dyke marsh came walking through. They were looking at an osprey nest that was built in a very strange place. I followed the direction of their binoculars and saw the nest, built right on the boom of a large sailboat, moored in the lagoon. Some of the sticks and branches of the nest were quite large and it looked as if someone had piled the sticks up for a bonfire on the boat.

Whit interviewed Chip with his smart phone, set on video record. I was impressed by Whit’s questions, and his professional, yet personable style. It was interesting to get Chips perspective on the river and how it has changed over the years. I think Chip was impressed with our mission and was happy to support Potomac Riverkeeper. I’d never considered myself part of the Potomac Riverkeeper organization, but I was proud when someone at the Bell Haven Marina called me a Potomac Riverkeeper.

I called my sister to arrange our meeting for later that day. Our hope was to cross the river again after we passed Fort Washington, and meet my sister Ceci and her husband, Lane for lunch at Hard Bargain Farm in Prince Georges County. Lane works at the farm so they had great access to the river and they would have no trouble bringing us cold drinks and club sandwiches.

We were a little concerned as we launched that morning however. We had discovered on the day before that there was a problem with Whit’s kayak. His boat was bent. The plastic of his kayak had somehow become warped and the nose of his kayak was curving a bit to the left, like a banana. The curvature of the boat made it necessary for Whit to have to compensate on every stroke in order to keep the thing going straight. It was a concern but I was confident that Whit would have the strength to work through this problem. Plus, since his kayak had a rudder and mine didn’t, and, since he was half my age, I secretly thought it might make things more even, and help me to keep up with him during the long trip.

The weather was satisfactory that morning but we goofed around the Marina too long and now the tide was against us. (We would soon learn the folly of trying to fight the power of the tide.) It became obvious that we were not going to make it to Hard Bargain Farm at the agreed upon time. We fought the light wind and the tide for several minutes and it was hard to believe that we were actually headed downstream. Soon, Fort Washington came into view on our left, and from this distance, it didn’t look too impressive. It was, however, strategically placed at this relatively narrow spot on the river. Just then, we heard a pop and a puff of smoke was visible rising from behind the walls of the fort. They were shooting their cannons at us!

We stopped on the Virginia side, just across from the fort, to take some pictures and send a tweet. We were at mid-tide and the gravel beach we were on was littered with tires, plastic jugs and bottles of all kinds. The little beach was also littered with dozens of periwinkle snails. These snails are not native to the Potomac but are doing well and don’t seem to be harming anything. I was concerned that the snails would die, being out of the water during low tide, but apparently these freshwater snails can breath air. We studied the map and tried to reconcile it with our view across the river. The river makes a hard turn to the right there so if we just continued our current trajectory we should bang right into the Maryland shore.

We squinted to try to make out the opposite shore but it was hard to tell where to go, exactly. We started our crossing and left the fort behind us. After a while I thought I could see my brother-in law’s truck in the distance, but it was another hour of hard paddling before I saw my sister’s form waving excitedly from the shore. We had arrived at hard Bargain Farm and after our long morning of paddling the name seemed appropriate. We left Bell haven at 11:20 and we arrived at Hard Bargain at 2:20, two hours later than I had predicted.

Thankfully, my lovely sister waited for us and we were glad to get out of our kayaks for a while and have a nice lunch. We hung out, ate some amazing club sandwiches, and drink large amounts of lemonade and water. The farm is right next to Piscataway Park, a historically significant spot where a Piscataway Chief is buried and where there are still sweat lodges for religious ceremonies. It would have been easy to sit there and watch the river for a while but after an hour we got ready to push off again. Our ambitious itinerary called for us to make another crossing that day.

We waved goodbye to Maryland and made our way toward Gunston Cove and Pohick Bay Regional Park where we had planned to camp that night. We passed Mount Vernon on the opposite shore and then reached Marshall Hall, hugging the Maryland shore the whole way. Here we would make our crossing, third one in two days, and head straight for Whitestone point. The large bay of Dogue Creek was on our right, which made the river seem really big as we struggled through the choppy water. It was a Sunday so there were many power boaters and water skiers jetting around us. I was happy to see all these people out having a good time on the water but I was nervous that they might not see us in our seemingly, tiny kayaks.

We were now paddling toward Fort Belvoir Military Reservation. All of the land between Dogue Creek and Gunston Cove is U.S. Army owned. Surprisingly, more than one third of it has been preserved as a wildlife sanctuary. After two hours in the boat we were across and I was ready for a break, but Whit warned me against making a landing on Army property. We slogged on, up the cove, past Gunston Hall mansion and plantation, home of George Mason, until we reached the bustling boat ramp at Pohick bay Regional Park. I had made arrangements to meet Dale Hook the supervisor. She said that she would help us stow our kayaks and give us a ride to the campground. Sadly, since it was now 6:30, Dale had gone home for the day. The camping area was over a mile away and we weren’t sure what to do. Thankfully we meet Alex, a park employee doing his last rounds of trash pick up. He was nice enough to give us, and our gear, a ride up the hill to the campground.

We were delivered to a typical campground, with driving loops, numbered sites, and comfort stations. They had showers, so in spite of Whit’s accusations of going soft and giving in to modern conveniences, I took a shower. It did feel very luxurious after a long day of paddling. The funny thing was, since we still less than twenty miles from D.C., Whit asked Meagan, his girlfriend, to come down and meet us at the campground. I’m sure he was happy to see her but mostly he wanted her to bring him another watch, since his had stopped working earlier that day. I probably would have been able to survive without a watch but I wasn’t about to complain when she showed up with a cold six-pack of beer. I boiled water and had my dinner of Beef Strouganogh, set up my tent and got ready for bed. While I was eating, a feral cat came creeping through our campsite. This was not a good sign, feral cats are not good for a balanced ecosystem and they can wipe out entire songbird populations.

July11, 2011— Day 3

Our new favorite park employee, Alex, promised to give us a ride back to the kayaks at 7:30 a.m. so I was up by 6:30 getting ready. I slept soundly but Whit complained that he was cold during the night. He had decided the night before to give Meagan his sleeping bag, thinking that it was unnecessary weight and that it was way too warm to need one anyway. It’s true, I didn’t bother bringing a sleeping bag because I thought it was going to be too warm but I did bring a sheet and a blanket. Whit said he had to wrap himself in his tent fly to stay warm. Pretty funny. It was surprising just how cold you can get while sleeping. Later in the trip, when temperatures dipped into the sixties, we had to wear all of our clothes to bed and Whit kept his feet warm by putting them in his drybag.

We loaded up with water, loaded up the boats, and took some last photos of the landing at Pohick. I found some black berries growing near the shore and had a couple handfuls to balance out my oatmeal breakfast. Whit’s usual breakfast was a can of fruit and a can or two of sardines. I’m not a big fan of sardines but Whit insisted they were the perfect food for paddlers, like Popeye’s spinach. There was a young eagle nearby in a tree as we launched into a calm Pohick bay.

Our plan was to make it around Hollowing point, paddle around Mason Neck, cross Occoquan bay and be at Tim’s Rivershore Restaurant for lunch. It was about 12 miles away, it was a beautiful day and we had no reason not to be optimistic. No reason that is, until we left the protection of Gunston Cove and got out into the main channel of the river. Out in the wild, main channel, the wind was blowing upriver from the south at about 15 to 20 MPH! The water was littered with the whitecaps of curling waves and my heart sank when I saw the big waves crash off of the bow of a distant barge.

For over two hours we hugged the Virginia shore of Mason Neck National Wildlife Refuge, (The nations first wildlife refuge, established in 1969 to protect the bald eagles.) We did see a lot of eagles along that shore, I quit counting at 16. We made it around Hollowing point and past Mason neck but our progress was very slow. We had to stop and rest, even though we weren’t even halfway to Tim’s yet. We sat and ate our snacks on the tip of Mason neck, looking out across Occoquan bay and contemplating our next crossing. We considered going up into Occoquan bay to try to make our crossing a little shorter but finally decided to go straight for the point on the opposite side. It would be over three miles of wide-open water and choppy seas.

I was nervous as we got ready to go but, “nothing to it, but to do it”, were Whit’s words as we shoved our kayaks back into the breaking waves. The waves made it difficult to launch and a wave crashed into my boat before I could get my skirt over the cockpit. It was a little dicey as I tried to keep from capsizing, get the water out of my boat and get my skirt over the cockpit before another wave got in. In the urgency of the moment, the fact that my little binoculars got soaked seemed of little consequence, but later I regretted not being more careful with them. I was sitting in a bit of water but I was too focused on the rough seas to be worried about that. The waves were coming up over our bows as we made a b-line for the distant point. It was funny, we started together but soon we were a hundred yards apart. I didn’t like being so far apart and I wished Whit would paddle closer to me. I asked him about it later and he said he was wishing that I would have paddled closer to him. We were heading to the same spot but somehow our trajectories were not the same. I thought I had the most direct route but Whit thought that his route was more direct and he jokingly accused me of taking the inner loop while he was on the more direct, 395. Regardless, it was a brutal two hours of nonstop paddling.

We arrived at Leesylvania State Park, once the home of Robert E. Lee’s father, Lighthorse Harry. This was also the site where a gambling cruise ship was moored during the 1950’s. Today, there is a long fishing pier, picnic pavilions, and a little beach with a sign that says “No Swimming”. There were two women in lawn chairs who were more than a little worried when they saw Whit and I pull up on the beach with our sun masks on. At some point during the crossing of Occoquan bay, we had left Fairfax County and we were now in Prince William County. We filled our water bottles and rested for a while. We could just barely make out the sight of Tim’s Rivershore, way off in the distance, and I was wishing that it wasn’t that far away. The thought of a cold beer and a crab cake sandwich helped me to ignore my blisters and other pains as we got back into our boats and made our way against the incoming tide.

It was just about 5:00 when we finally reached the red and yellow palm trees and gaudy beer signs of the famous Tim’s. Loud rock music coming from the bar was our sound track as we paddled past the speedboats and docks and onto the beach. Our lunch spot was now going to be our dinner spot, not exactly how I had envisioned the day’s progress. I tried not to worry about it during dinner, but we still had to make a four-mile river crossing before we reached our campsite.

We had heard stories of how wild Tim’s Rivershore can get and we were hoping for a little excitement, but sadly, it was a Monday and the place was dead. The train tracks run close to the river here and every few minutes the music would be drowned out by the sound of a commuter train and its loud whistle. I was glad that I wasn’t stuck on a train like all of those thousands of commuters and I felt myself slowly adjusting to the hardships and joys of life on the river.

Dinner was good and the beer was really good. I wanted to stay for a third beer but we still had at least two hours of paddling to do. I had reserved us a campsite at Smallwood State Park on Mattawoman creek in Charles County, Maryland. The crosswinds had died down a little but I still did not like the idea of being two miles from shore as we painfully made our river crossing. The good news was that it was a Monday and all of the pleasure boaters were gone and we didn’t need to worry about a lot of boat traffic. The sky had grown dark, and behind us we could see huge storm clouds forming in the west. We endured the crossing and finally made it into the mouth of Mattawoman Creek. Here, it is the navy that is the primary landholder and the Indian Head Surface Warfare Center was on our left.

The looming storm was becoming a concern now as the sky continued to darken and the wind began to pick up. The small bay in front of the campground marina was choked with a thick mat of hydrila and I was forced to make a big loop around it to get to the take out. Whit, on the other hand, was able to push right through the thick vegetation for a direct route to the campground. As usual, Whit did not seem rushed, but I, on the other hand, was on a mission to get myself, and all of my gear, into a secure tent before the deluge started.

The marina was almost deserted but we did meet a state employee who talked about doing years of work controlling the invasive insects throughout the state. We had to walk a few hundred yards from the marina to the campsite, and I was glad that I had my big blue IKEA bag to carry all my stuff in. That bag proved to be very useful during the trip and I started to think that maybe IKEA could sponsor my next trip.

The sound of the thunder was getting closer and the sky looked quite ominous as I quickly climbed the hill to our campsite. We got the tents set up just in time and I was thrilled to be safe and dry when the first raindrops started to hit. It was a short, but violent storm and some of the thunderclaps made me jump as I sat in my tent reading by the light of my headlamp. It was my younger brother’s 48th birthday, so, with the last of the battery power on my phone, I called to wish him a happy birthday.

July 12, 2011-- Day 4

We were learning the importance of paddling with the tide instead of against it. Every night Whit would use his smart phone to check the tides at our location and we would try to plan accordingly. Unfortunately, the tide would start its retreat long before we were up, at about 4:00 am, so everyday we were faced with spending at least some of the time paddling against the strong, full moon tide. We made it out of Mattawoman creek before 9:00 and made our way downstream. The large, Possum Point power plant dominated the view on the Virginia shore as we floated beneath massive power lines suspended over the river. We stopped at an old barge that was rusting in the shallows and guessed it to be some discarded military vessel.

The sun was really hot that day (the high was over 100 degrees) and for some reason I was having a lot of trouble keeping up with Whit. We had a tail wind for the first time and it definitely seemed to be to Whit’s advantage. Maybe it was because he had a rudder and I didn’t, or maybe it was because I did not have my gear stowed correctly. Whatever it was, I was working way too hard and I was sweating a lot. The tail wind kept pushing me around and it was all I could do to keep my kayak pointed downstream. Thankfully, Whit stopped to wait for me, and I took a much-needed break and a little swim.

We were just about to reach one of the major sightseeing spots along our trip. Soon we would be entering the famous, Mallows Bay. Mallows Bay is the resting place for some 130 sunken ships, including wooden steamships built during WWI. It is the largest ship graveyard in the country! It was cool paddling in amongst the old hulls and we happened to be there at the optimum time, as the tide was at its lowest and the ships were most visible. It was easy to see that all of the wooden structures in the bay were old ships but from our perspective, at water level, it was not a very dramatic sight. It just looked like a calm bay with lots of tiny grass-covered island. Whit commented on the amount of resources that were invested how wasteful it was to have all of these resources sitting on the bottom of the river. These ships were built as war ships and the hulls were constructed of the biggest timbers that I had ever seen. Huge, tree-sized timbers knitted together by long, closely spaced bolts, hundreds of them. Whit tried to get a picture of a water snake to send out on twitter and I was beginning to think that I needed to get out of the sun, quick. I paddled through the bay and up the little creek to the take out.

By now I was really feeling the effects of heat exhaustion and dehydration, plus one of the foot braces on my kayak had lost a screw and was dangling uselessly. I landed my boat and quickly grabbed my water and food and tried to find some shade. There was no real escape from the heat but I drank a lot of water and started to feel better. I drank three liters in no time, not a good sign, and spent some time trying to fix my footrest. There was an interpretive sign there talking about the local flora and fauna of the area. It said that there was a large great blue heron rookery, the largest rookery in the mid-Atlantic, nearby in Nanjemoy Creek. The funny thing was that I had just read that the largest rookery in the mid Atlantic was miles away at Mason Neck, somebody’s wrong. We both sat and ate some lunch and Whit called into the Riverkeeper office. I was feeling really stupid for not filling my big water bag when I was back at Smallwood State Park. I was now tapping heavily into Whit’s water reserves and we were still facing a long and hot, four-hour river crossing to get to Aquia creek. I spent a few minutes trying to repair my foot brace but it broke again as soon as I put pressure on it. I was able to paddle without the foot brace on that side but it made it a little harder to control the boat. At least there wasn’t any water leaking in, yet.

We left Mallows Bay at about 1:30. Quantico Marine Base, at 68,000 acres, was directly across from us. Our destination, Aquia Creek Marina, on the other hand, was over ten miles away. Sadly, the tide was coming in to fight us the whole way. Again, we noticed that there was hardly another boat out there besides our own and we were not sure if that was a good thing or a bad thing. The way that things were going, it looked like it was going to be another gut-check day, but like Whit said, everyday was gut-check day on the Island to Island trek. I think we were both pretty miserable at this point, but there was no use in complaining. The only thing to do was to keep on soldiering on. We had to ignore all of our minor aches and pains and just know that we had the strength to get to the other side. I could ignore my pains, somewhat, but I had more trouble trying to ignore the fact that we did not yet have a place to stay that night, and it was going to be 6:00 pm before got anywhere.

I was hoping for a lucky break but sometimes you just can’t buy a break. We had been fighting the incoming tide all afternoon and now, at the mouth of Aquia Creek, we were hoping that the tide would carry us up the creek, but no such luck. The tide had turned again and we had to fight the current again as it rushed out of the creek. We were in pretty bad shape and on the verge of heat exhaustion when we finally limped into the marina at Aquia Creek. We were now completely out of water. We soon met our contact at the marina, a tall slim man named Robert Taylor. He looked like he was in his late-thirties and very much at home around the big powerboats and yachts. He had moved there from N.C. to be the manager of the service station at the marina. This was a big marina and servicing all of these boats was obviously a big operation.

We tried to be nonchalant and not show our thirst as we asked if there was a place where we could fill our water bottles. It wasn’t even funny when he told us that all of the water at the marina had just been turned off. A pipe had burst earlier in the day and the plumbers were to return in the morning to fix it. I guess that he saw the desperation in our faces because he quickly offered us a drink from the jugs of water in a fridge in the back of the garage.

That drink of water saved us from our immediate problem, but we still had no plan for the rest of the night and we still had no water for drinking or cooking. In his usual, need-to-know basis I learned that we were going to interview Robert. He was about to go home and this was our only chance. I wanted to interview Robert, of course, and since Whit wasn’t on vacation I think he felt compelled to get some good interviews so that he would have something to show for our week on the river. I wanted to do what was best for the mission, but the sun was sinking and I was extremely tired, thirsty and hungry and I was getting worried about how the night might turn out.

I was pretty sure that Whit was just as tired as I was so I couldn’t argue. It wasn’t easy however, to sit patiently during the interview. I really had to bite my tongue to keep myself from asking Robert Taylor to help us with our problems. The interview was very interesting and informative and Robert turned out to be a really great guy. We were finished talking to Robert and getting ready to board our kayaks when I just couldn’t keep quiet any longer. I asked Robert if there was any other place to get water and if he knew of any place nearby where we could pitch our tents. As it turned out, he did know of a small park three miles away, back down at the mouth of the creek. The park was closed at dark but he said he had seen tents there before. (I later learned that Whit already had this same spot in mind as a camping possibility, but that goes back to that need-to-know thing.) Great, now our only predicament was lack of water. Robert came through in spades in this department too. He felt so bad about the water being turned off that he reopened the marina store and gave us all of the bottled water out of the fridge and gave us a bag of ice. We were so grateful and offered him money, but he refused to accept anything in return. I vowed to repay him somehow.

Things were looking up. We had water and a possible place to crash. All we had to do now was paddle three miles back down to the mouth of the creek, no problem. Of course, getting back into my kayak was the last thing I wanted to do, but no choice. Thankfully I was able to distract myself from my misery by watching the elegant flight of all the common terns that happened to be there. Nowhere else on the trip did I see any terns, but here, in Aquia Creek, they were everywhere, perched on the top of every dock and piling. The sky was interesting too, bright blue with brilliant white cumulous clouds.

We reached Aquia Landing Park and we could see the last of the cars leaving the parking lot as we slowly made our way closer. I was so tired that I decided that we simply had to camp there no matter what, so we landed. Luckily, it was a fantastic spot overlooking the river and the creek. The sun was now pretty low but we had time to set up and fix dinner. We even had time to enjoy a beautiful sunset while we ate. It had been an extremely difficult day, the gut-check of the gut-check days. My blisters had turned into painful calluses and I was pretty much sore all over, especially my shoulder. It had been a hard day, but after a meal and a drink of rum I was feeling pretty good, content, and happy to be where I was.

July 13, 2011—Day 5

We woke up early to a beautiful day. The river was calm and glassy. The sun was low in the sky and was sending a golden hue across the landscape. The water was gently lapping at the rocks along the shore and an osprey soaring overhead completed the scene. It was one of those simple, early-morning moments that make you feel glad that you’re alive.

We had another big day planned, of course. Our goal for the morning was to reach Fairview Beach and have lunch at Tim’s II. We would then carry on to Caledon Natural Area, then to Mathias point on the Virginia side and finally, do a major crossing into the Port Tobacco River and camp at Chapel point in Charles County Maryland. I did not realize it, as we set off, but we were looking at a 22-mile day.

We got a good start, leaving Aquia Creek at 8:30. Before we left, I found some wire in the parking lot and was able to do a better fix on my foot brace and it seemed to hold when I pushed on it. I squeezed myself into my kayak and amazingly, it actually felt Ok to be back in my boat. I thought that after yesterday’s torture I would never want to get back into my kayak again. There is nothing like a good night’s sleep.

The tide was with us that morning and we made it to Tim’s II in less than two hours. We were learning that when we traveled with the tide we could usually make about 4 miles an hour, but when the tide was against us, we struggle to make 2 miles an hour. We arrived at Fairview beach and the painted palm trees of Tim’s II at 10:00 am. The place was deserted except for a waitress who told us that we had an hour to wait until we could order lunch. I really didn’t mind doing some sightseeing in Fairview, but it was hard not to think about the fact that we were sacrificing two good hour of out-going tide. The thing about it was, there just weren’t very many restaurants accessible from the river, so if we happened to pass a riverside watering hole, we were sort of obligated to stop and take advantage. Plus, since Tim’s II was on our itinerary, we had to stop. We were, of course, stubbornly committed to stick to our itinerary.

Fairview is a quiet town situated on the outside corner of a huge bend in the river. We followed a road up to a small bluff and the view was impressive. Being at the bend in the river like we were, we could see over 15 miles up river and another 15 miles down river. Fairview is a sleepy town now, but back before the Bay Bridge was built, this was a happening beach town, with slot machines and gambling tables. We finished our walk through town, waving to the locals on their golf carts and headed back to Tim’s.

While we were having lunch, I called Dale hook, our host from Pohick Bay that we never saw. I thanked her for looking out for us and I told her how helpful Alex had been. I asked her about the feral cats and she told me about the ineffectual catch-neuter-and release program at the park. She then told me about how the pay booth at Pohick Bay Regional Park had been robbed on the evening that we were there. Crazy.

We left Tim’s II and we were headed to our next break spot at Caledon Natural Area. (Caledon Natural Area was once the site of Caledon Plantation, established in 1659, by John and Phillip Alexander. John and Phillip would later go on to establish the city of Alexandria.) We were going against the tide again and it was pure agony. We didn’t talk much, just cursed under our breath as we slogged along for another two hours. My legs were so claustrophobic and sore that I had to fight the urge to jump out of my boat and swim for shore. The monotony was broken when a Nordic Tug pulled up along side us and the skipper warned us of an approaching line of thunderstorms. We could see the clouds building to the north, but thankfully, it looked as if we would make it to Metomkin point at Caledon before the worst of the storm hit.

The point was a really pretty spot, with an inland pond and, miraculously, a roofed pavilion where we could shelter ourselves from the eminent downpour. I got ready for a long siege and took my food and water from my storage compartments to the pavilion. While waiting for the storm, we walked along the driftwood-littered beach, feeling the power of the wind and listening to the waves crashing onto the shore. The sky turned black and it was exciting to watch the river change character. I did my first phone interview while we were waiting there for the rain to stop. Damien, calling from the Riverkeeper office, asked me a few questions that he would later put up on the website. I tried to sound clever but I think I pretty much muffed up the interview.

The rain was strong but short lived and, even though the wind was fierce, we did manage to stay pretty dry in our shelter. The skies began to clear and it was time to get moving again. It was now after 4:00 and we still had a long way to go. The tide and the storm had put us way behind schedule and I was beginning to wonder if we would make it to the primitive campsite that I had reserved. Funny thing, I had reserved the site for Thursday night and today was only Wednesday, oh well. We headed toward Mathias point where we had planned to stock up on water. I had been told Sycamore Island member, John Matthews, that we could get water from their house, which was high up on the cliffs of Mathias point. Considering everything, I was feeling pretty good but I was a little stressed-out because the pressure was on me to find the house and the much-needed water.

The sky was very active with the passing of storm clouds and the fast-moving clouds entertained me as we made the crossing in silence. Again, we managed to take different routes across this shallow bay and after another two hours of thankless paddling we found ourselves below the cliffs of Mathias point. It was now about 7:00 and I was stating to panic about finding our water stop. I strained my eyes in the fading light, searching for the landmarks that I was given to help us find the house. I knew the house was up there somewhere and if we took the time, I’m sure I would have found it. But the darkness was looming and with a long river crossing ahead of us, time was not a luxury that we had. It was suddenly feeling really late and I was beginning to think that maybe we should try to find the Matthews house and just spend the night in Virginia that night.

Whit was busy studying the satellite picture on his smart phone trying to figure out where we were. His silence made me worry that he was losing his patience with me. I paddled close to shore to get a better look and was at a loss as to what to do next. Apparently we had passed the house. We could have gone back, but that would have cost us a lot of valuable time. I was determined to find the house but Whit, rightly so, didn’t think we had time to find the house, get water and then make the crossing. This lack of communication was starting to get to me, but then I realized that Whit had spotted someone on a distant dock and he was headed there. In defeat, with a sense of failure, I followed Whit past a big river buoy to one of the many private piers jutting out into the river from Mathias Point. I was apologetic as we landed our kayaks on the rocky beach but Whit was focused on getting us some water and we didn’t waste any time talking about my inability to find the house.

Again, we were incredibly fortunate to happen upon this nice gentleman standing out on his dock. Whit, with his friendly, central Virginia charisma, easily convinced the stranger to help us out and allow us to fill our jugs at his place. Luckily, Whit had the where with all to remove his mask before we approached.

Our host, a recent retiree, seemed excited to get some visitors and he asked us a lot of questions about our trip while we followed him up the stairs from the river. His place was beautiful, with a perfectly manicured lawn and everything in meticulous order. It was quite a contrast to the gritty existence that we’d been living for the last five days. We met his wife at the glistening, sliding glass doors and they graciously let us and our grimy selves come inside and fill our jugs at their kitchen sink. They pulled out a map when we told them of our evenings plans and from his window high above the river he pointed out across the river to our destination, a tiny speck on the far shore.

It was now close to 8:00 and we still had to paddle another five miles to reach Chapel point. I was worrying about crossing the river in the dark and I was about to suggest that we break out our headlamps but Whit just jumped into his boat and we were off. He was really good about not worrying. The storm clouds were way off in the distant south and strangely we were headed due north as we headed toward the mouth of Port Tobacco River. There was a colorful sunset happening on our left and a full moon rising up over the Morgantown power plant on our right. It was a rare and beautiful sight but it was somewhat wasted on me, as I was nervous and really didn’t want to linger out there in the middle of the river, in the dark. Also, I was concerned about finding our campsite. Neither of us had been to our nest stop before and in the dark it would be challenging to find a safe harbor. I mustered up my strength and tried to make some time. I assumed that Whit was close behind, paddling with matched urgency, but when I turned to look for him he was nowhere in sight. This was the first time that we were not in constant visual contact and I got a jolt of fear when I suddenly found myself alone in the dark on the massive river. I was a little frustrated that Whit did not seem to be in the same hurry that I was in, but I had to admire his commitment to getting the important pictures and doing the tweeting, even under these circumstances.

The moon was full and bright but it was of little use in helping us to decipher the shoreline and to find our campsite. My map had very little detail and Whit had resorted to using his smart phone again to see if the satellite picture could help us at all. The problem was that every time we stopped paddling to check the maps, the tide would carry us backwards, away from our goal. We crept along in the dark but, judging by the satellite picture, we had to go further up Port Tobacco River to find a usable beach. There were no signs to indicate that we were at any kind of a state park but the beach was big enough to pitch our tents, and since we didn’t have any strength left to go on, we decided to crash there for the night. It was now 10:00 and I quickly got out the cooking stuff and made dinner and pitched my tent. There were more feral cats here and I was realizing that we seem to have a very serious cat problem along this river. We ate our dinner, sitting in the sand on the beach and looking up at the stars of the big dipper. Then, finally, we slept.

July 14, 2011---Day 6

Another pretty day, and now, after the passing of the storms, the humidity was much more tolerable. We were up early, despite being awakened in the middle of the night by the cold and the sound of waves lapping close to our tents. The water did not reach our tents but the full moon was causing the tide to reach much higher than we had expected. We were up early, but still the tide was going out faster than we could get ready and there was only three hours of outgoing tide left by the time we set out. We were facing another big day, starting with our seventh and longest crossing yet.

Our plan for the morning was to shoot straight out of Port Tobacco River and find Persimmon Point on the Virginia shore, about 7 miles away. We had a strong tailwind and the small waves were pushing us from behind. Sometimes we would be able to surf the little waves, but mostly the wind gave us fits and it was another long and painful river crossing. I learned later that this was the spot where John Wilkes Booth had tried to cross the river to escape the Federals after he had assassinated President Lincoln. The river played a part in history that night, as Booth was unable to fight the tide and wind and make a successfully crossing. He and his partner were blown back up river into Port Tobacco River. They never did make the crossing and they were eventually captured.

Our luck was a little better than Booth’s, but we were completely whipped when we finally reached the pilings underneath the Harry W. Nice Bridge of route 301. It was 10:00 a.m. There was a little wayside park and a beach there by the bridge and a few picnickers were there, enjoying the break in the hot weather. There was also a big visitors center there called The Potomac Gateway Center. It was a big, expensive facility, part on the Chesapeake Bay Gateways Network, the same group that produced the outdated maps that we were using. Alas, the funding for this great program had run out and this impressive building was boarded up and sat unused.

The tide was now on it’s way back in and we just did not have the heart to fight it so we decided to take a long lunch break there at the park. Whit, with his fancy smart phone, discovered that there was a Sheets gas station about a mile and a half away. The thought of an ice-cold Gatorade and something other than peanut butter to eat made it worth the hike up 301 and we hiked to Sheets for lunch. We returned to the riverside and, after a short nap we were poised to go again.

The tide, sadly, was still on its way in and would not turn again until 4:30. It was only 3:00 but we were tired of sitting around, so despite Whit’s quote from the day before, “paddling against the tide is stupid”, we shoved off. We had traveled seven miles that morning, but we still had eleven more miles to go before we reached our next and final stop of the day, Colonial Beach. The omnipresent Morgantown power plant was close by on our left as were came out from under the 301 Bridge. I was glad to be paddling away from it now as opposed to toward it, as we had been doing for the last two days. Whit told me that Potomac Riverkeeper had sued the plant for some of its dumping practices. Apparently they were illegally dumping the toxic ash from their scrubbers near the fragile, Zekiah Swamp Natural Environmental Area, the headwaters of the Wicomoco River.

On river right there was a very large naval reservation, the 4,300-acre Dahlgren Weapons Laboratory. They control several miles of shoreline in and around Machadoc Creek. Our map had warned us to be aware of military crafts near the mouth of that creek. We had been paddling for 30 minutes when we noticed a navy-gray patrol boat with a siren on top heading toward us. Soon the craft was right on top of us and, without any introduction or explanation, a bullhorn belted out that we must immediately turn around and go back up river. Naturally, after having attained these precious miles, I was not instantly obedient and shook my head, hoping for a more reasonable alternative. Again the bullhorn told us to turn around and go back up river, but this time added that there was an artillery drill going on and that we happened to be in the hot zone of a firing range. I guess that was a good reason to turn around but Whit and I both thought, if this was really a matter of life and death, why in the world didn’t they tell us before we got into the death zone. Whit asked if we could paddle across river and pass using the main shipping channel, where the larger ships were passing unharassed. Again we were ordered to turn around and head back up river. We reluctantly obliged but asked how long we would have to wait before we were allowed to pass. We were told that there was one more test to do and that it might be over 30 minutes. He also added, rudely, that if it took longer it was our fault for being in the wrong place. Whatever dude. So we waited, joking about how they probably couldn’t hit us even if they tried and wishing that the tide wasn’t carrying us back upriver to the bridge. We held on to the crab trap buoys that were starting to appear now that we were in more brackish water. Then, after a short wait we heard a very load siren coming from somewhere on the base. There was the load boom of a cannon and we watched the river expecting to see a huge splash. To our disappointment there was nothing. The sirens stopped blaring and we watched as the patrol boat disappeared up the creek in the distance. I guess it was safe to go.

Yet another setback and Colonial Beach was still just a sliver of land way, way down river. We had always planned to go to Colonial Beach but we had never made any arrangement about where to sleep once we got there. Thankfully, the smart phone saved the day again. I had noticed a little camping icon on the map and Whit was able to find the phone number with his phone and, presto, our camping concerns were alleviated. We had fantasized about Colonial beach, the only town that we would visit since leaving Alexandria. We thought that we would get there with plenty of time to take in the sights and maybe find that exciting nightlife that had been evading us. Fantasizing helps to pass the long hours in the kayak but now my only wish was to find the campground before it was completely dark and that there would be a restaurant still serving cold beer and food. We slowly paddled away the miles, the scenery seemingly unchanged. We came upon a navigation buoy in the middle of the river. It marked the spot of some sand bars where the river was very shallow. The bars and the concrete marker caused havoc on the strong tide and the unpredictable currents were pushing our kayaks around in the most unexpected ways.

It was on the way to Colonial Beach where we saw a large patch of some foul-looking slim on the water. Most of what we had heard from people during the trip was about how much the river had improved since the old days of the sixties and early seventies. Back in those days, large numbers of dead fish would wash up on the shores of the Potomac. Thankfully we did not witness anything like that during our trip, but seeing this slim on the water was a reminder that there is still a lot of work to be done to preserve this river and our drinking water.

Finally, we reached the outskirts of the famous Colonial Beach. We were not impressed. We paddled past the public beaches and were astonished by the run down look of the place. There were old pilings randomly scattered in the water in front of the bathers. There were weeds growing up in the parking lots behind the beach and some of the houses and businesses looked like they were abandoned. Whit started to sing an old Morrissey song that has the line, “it was the coastal town that they forgot to close down.”

Things were not looking too good for us but we tried to remain optimistic as we paddled past the length of the town and around the point into Morgan Bay. Here, there was a huge marina, housing the biggest boats/ships that we had seen yet. Another mile of painful paddling up the bay and we found a trailer park city with hundreds of campers packed tightly along the water’s edge. I didn’t want to believe that that was our campground so, despite my utter fatigue, kept going further up into the creek. Whit, in his wisdom, used his phone and found the camp host. I paddled back to the only campground in town and found Whit talking to the camp manager, Joe, who then gave us both a ride in his golf cart to show us our campsite for the night. It was a tiny spot wedged between two large trailers. It wasn’t perfect but we felt fortunate to have a place to stay. Plus it was right on the water and we did not have to go far to pitch our tents.

This would be our sixth night of sleeping out under the stars and our lives were reduced to the essentials, rest, food, water, and beer. We were directed to a place across the bay and we paddled there without delay. It was too late to order dinner but they brought us some generous appetizers and we began to feel a little better. I was so happy to be out of my kayak, with a beer in my hand.

The moon was high and bright as we paddled up the creek back to our accommodations. There was limited space so there was no question about where to throw down the tents. Whit went straight to bed and I took a long hot shower. There is nothing like torturing yourself all day to make you appreciate a long hot shower. Before heading to bed, I sat alone on the picnic table watching the moonlight on the water. Very peaceful.

It was 2:30 in the morning when something strange happened. I woke up to find that the floor of my tent was not laying flat but was billowing like a waterbed. Just then I heard Whit’s voice from inside his tent, he too was now sleeping on a waterbed. At first, in my sleepy stupor, I was in denial, maybe if I went back to sleep everything would be better in the morning. Then I heard the sound of my boat floating back and forth outside and it was undeniable, our tents were now in the Potomac River.

During the night, the tide had come up and our, once dry, campsite was now inundated with four inches of water. Maybe it was the full moon that caused the exceptionally high tide, or maybe it was the strong wind that made the river leave her banks. Whatever the reason, the river was up and I had to get up and rescue my kayak. I really did not want my kayak to drift off with the tide. Thankfully, both of our tents were dry on the inside, and Whit opted not to disturb the delicate balance between wet and dry and he stayed safely in his half-floating tent. The river was just below the zipper of my tent door and I had to be extremely careful as I unzipped it. One false move and the water would come rushing in like a levee break. The water was well over my ankles when I stepped into the water in my bare feet, but I was glad that the water wasn’t very cold. It was a good thing that I got up, though. My sandals and Whit’s Crocs had already drifted out past the boats and my kayak was completely buoyant and ready to sail away. Unfortunately, the tide was still coming in and would continue to rise for another hour. I dragged the boats up to the camp road, hoping they would be safe there, and decided to sleep on the picnic table rather than try to wait out the tide in the floating tent. At 5:30 the tide had gone out again and I went back to the tent for another hour of sleep.

July 15, 2011--Day 7

My first thought in the morning was that this was our last day on the river and a lot of the pressure was off. The struggle of getting to Colonial beach was a distant memory and I was feeling pretty strong. I had left my cell phone outside of the camp office where I was able to plug it in and charge it, so I took and early morning walk to retrieve it. The trailer park was quite extensive and it was interesting strolling past all of the low-rent vacation homes. The trailers were packed in pretty tight but some of them were nice, with porches and awnings and portable fireplaces. Of course some of the trailers were over the top with flags and wind chimes and lawn ornaments and beachy signs like, “ A crab lives here”, and “No time is wasted if you’re wasted all the time”.

Walking back with my fully charged cell phone I was able to check my messages and return some calls. My phone battery had died way back at Mathias Point, so I had been incommunicado for 36 hours. It was good to hear familiar voices and it was fun to know that everyone was cheering for us as we neared our finish line. Today was the day, all we had to do was make a long crossing to the inlet of Cobb Island, eat lunch, and then paddle the last tree miles across the mouth of the Wicomico River and then we would be on Jefferson Island.

We weren’t in a big hurry that morning and I took the time to try and repair my foot brace that was still giving me trouble. I found some old wire and made what I thought was an improvement. I used some duct tape to keep the water out and hoped that it would be OK for this final crossing. We ordered breakfast sandwiches from the store/diner at the campground. We also got a chance to interview Rusty, the owner of the campground and once oysterman. Rusty’s father used to owned a big oyster shucking warehouse in town. It finally shut down in 2003, after Hurricane Isabel wiped out the last of the oysters in the Potomac. When the oysters were plentiful, back in the fifties and sixties, the plant employed fifty shuckers. Rusty also had a story about the oyster wars and how his father got involved in that interstate dispute. I never thought of Colonial Beach as a watermans town but there is definitely a rich history of oystering, crabbing and eeling in this town.

It was finally time to go, but now, as has been typical, we would be fighting the incoming tide. Striking out into the open water and the hot sun, we plowed toward Cobb Island, leaving Colonial beach behind. We made it across in about an hour and entered the channel separating Cobb Island from the mainland. It was lined with docks and marinas full of luxury yachts and working boats. We saw a sign for seafood and found a place to beach our kayaks. MMMM softshell crab sandwiches! It never tasted so good. I guess I'm feeling the effects of living outside and paddling for 7 days or maybe knowing that the end is near but I really enjoyed that meal.

We climbed back into the kayaks but I wasn't feeling too stoked. Tired and hot and navigating past the speed boats as we cross the mouth of the Wicomico river as it empties into the Potomac. We come to Margarets Island after the crossing the Wicomaco, but we have to paddle around to get our first glimpse of our destination, St Catherines Island, Home of the Jefferson Island Club! My arms start to give in to the fatigue as I paddle the last quarter mile to the beach. What a relief.

We are greeted by our hosts, Jeff Glassie and Julie Littel and Whit and I have some quiet time before all of the revelers show up and the celebration/fundraiser begins. What a feast and what a trip!