Maiden Voyage

As chronicled in a previous blog, a friend of mine and I built skin-on-frame kayaks a few weeks ago. Unfortunately, hard on the heels of completion, we had scheduled a kayak expedition on northern Lake Huron, so we didn’t get to paddle them. Kind of like baking a cake from scratch and then you don’t get a taste.

I returned this past weekend to find a pile of to-dos and didn’t get to do the maiden voyage until yesterday. Since I was alone and had no idea how it would handle, I selected a benign park lake.

The first trick is getting into it. First of all, we built them to fit like a dress purchased six months ahead of a high school reunion with the resolution to crash diet 20 pounds. Secondly, you have to enter the narrow kayak while it is floating, as opposed to on solid ground and sliding in, which you might do with a plastic boat. Envision a brontosaurus trying to squeeze into bicycle pants while standing on a basketball.

I carried my kayak to the launch point, which was adjacent to the park’s playground. A brilliant emerald green and almost 18’ long, it was hardly inconspicuous. A host of little urchins in the playground urgently yanked on their mothers’ hands and pointed. I soon had an audience. Great, just what I needed.

The challenge then became mounting the skittish steed while answering incessant questions in rapid fire mode, and maintaining a friendly smile. The technique is to slide a paddle through the deck lines, establishing a minimal outrigger effect for some support. That would work if I was using a narrow Greenland paddle, for which the lines were designed. However, for the maiden voyage, I was using a wider Euro blade with which I was more comfortable doing a roll to upright a capsized boat. It did not fit under the deck lines. I could hold it across the deck, but the benefit was reduced.

I straddled the kayak and sat on the deck, just behind the cockpit opening. For the first time, I could sense the degree of stability afloat. What there was of it. This came as no surprise since you build these boats narrow. Devotees of this style tell you it’s up to the paddler to stay upright, not the boat. Right.

I gingerly lifted one leg, shifting some weight to counterbalance. So far, so good. Then, the other with a corresponding weight shift. With the small cockpit opening, you have to insert your feet simultaneously, which means one isn’t planted on the lake’s bottom for support. You have to wriggle in while balanced atop the tippy boat. The crowd held their breath or maybe it was just me.

Miracle of miracles, I was in. Now all I had to do was snap on the spray skirt over the rim. A simple task under normal conditions with any of my other boats. A feat with this one because every eye blink evoked a tilting of the deck. I clamped the paddle shaft under my arm for some bracing effect, gently worked the skirt and answered a hundred questions about what I was doing.

I was now sealed in and not inhaling lake water. The miracle continues. The kayak flicked from side to side in response to my overreactions to its shifts and tender balance. “Why is it doing that?,” came the chorus. I chose not to answer and just get under way. I don’t want to leave the impression that I’m putting this all on the kayak. There are paddlers who zip in and out of these things like hummingbirds. My skill set just happens to be skewed more toward eating pizza and washing it down with beer.

The paddling force steadied the keel and I was soon speeding across the lake. But there still wasn’t total joy in kayakville.

Normally, I would have my knees somewhat bent and splayed for balance. The position here was with legs together and straight out in front of me, like sitting on a 2x4. The low deck prevented any knee bend. The action of the paddle and dynamics of the hull in motion were keeping me upright.

I gained confidence with every stroke. Did I dare try a lean and turn? Ordinarily, that would entail lifting a knee against a brace, something that can be executed with control and accuracy. Not so here. It was something I had to do mostly with my pelvis; not a precision instrument.

I gave it a barely perceptible tilt and the side of the cockpit rim plunged to the waterline. Good to know it was responsive. Right.

The kayak carved a sharp arc as desired. Things were looking up and my paddling attitude was returning. I ran it through the gamut of maneuvers, getting more aggressive with each iteration. She responded like no boat I had ever paddled I felt like I was riding a thoroughbred, barely controlled by the reins.

Not all sweetness and light. I was already compiling a list of things to modify or that I would do differently on the next boat. With most kayaks, when you slide in (or out), your heels skid right over the smooth floor to facilitate this. Not so with a kayak that has ribs and a flexible hull material. I began to contemplate a solution. Also, with the tailored measurements, the back of the cockpit was near or against my spine, especially with layback maneuvers. Note to self: bone vs. oak; oak wins. I needed to alter the cockpit rim before it altered me. I suppose it’s a bit like your children. They may have a couple quirks, but they’re still yours and you love them. The kayak was bringing about that great boat grin.

I returned to the launch site and was grateful to find a dearth of spectators. I extricated myself with the grace of a crippled rhino, but managed not to take a swim.

I was racking her up on the truck when a man approached with his family. “Sure is pretty. Where do you get one of those?”

I told him there were several stores to buy manufactured kayaks. You could find one like this scouring the classified ads, but mostly, you built one, as I had. “Sure must feel great to paddle what you created.”

Sure does.