Main Surfboards Paddleboards Information

(This article recently appeared in The Surfer's Path,  issue no. 43, United Kingdom.  2004

s the horizon female or male? Maybe this question, if asked at all, is asked only by students of the French language, sailors, surfers—and paddleboarders like me. The horizon gives birth to distant islands and coastlines, so it could be a woman. But its unquestioning straightness of purpose (even as it becomes ambiguous when pressed for its truth) is more classically male. I ponder the horizon’s gender while crouched at four in the morning on a sliver of beach on the north end of St. Lucia beside my 14-ft.-long, 2-ft-wide, canary-yellow paddleboard—a simple craft that, like a surfboard. is paddled with just the hands and arms.

I hope to be the first human to cross the 22-mile St. Lucia channel between St. Lucia and its northern neighbor, Martinique, on a paddleboard. The full moon slides up from the horizon and bakes in the dark, hot oven of the West Indian sky like a silver cookie. It’s ninety degrees F. I’m dressed in a red, long-sleeved rash guard, purple cycling tights, a sun visor and goggles to protect me against the elements and make me more visible in the open sea. Drops of sweat crawl like ants down my back and chest. I attach to the stern of my board the foot-controlled rudder that will keep me straight in wind and current, and load gear—a VHF radio, a few sports bars and bananas, a Vinyl bladder of water—in a mesh carryall on the front of my board.

The horizon, an undulating tarnish between the twin silvers of moonlit sky and sea, pulses with wind and swell. I can see that the weather isn’t good in the St. Lucia channel. Experience tells me the wind will hold at 20 knots or more, the swell to six feet—maybe with a few eight-to-ten foot rogue waves coming through. My destination, Martinique, hides in darkness and a curtain of dust blown across the Atlantic Ocean from the Sahara Desert. Thinking of how small I’ll soon be on my paddleboard in the open sea makes me feel sick. The rising wind taps my cheek with my gray hair and reminds me that my 58^th birthday will be soon. Many people tell me a woman my age shouldn’t attempt such extreme things.

“Get a grip,” I tell myself.

I’ve paddled hundreds of miles through the West Indies and each year, from my home on Tortola in the British Virgin Islands, I plan a new paddling trip that connects Caribbean islands and crosses at least one channel of more than 20 miles. Still, the sight of a new challenge gives me the jitters. A herd of cows—the ultimate landlubbers—wanders past and soothes my nerves. Smelling the grassy gusts from the wide nostrils below the dim, collective brain of the herd, I feel rooted to earth’s fundament and sweetness—though I know I must soon morph into a sea creature.

After greeting the few yawning St. Lucians who straggle down to the beach to flash pictures and cheer me on, I tow my board by the leash that keeps me with my craft in rough weather into the sea, which is deceptively calm in the moonlit shallows. The lights of my chase boat surge just offshore. Nine tenths of my paddling is done without escort, but after being severely bitten by a fish, if I can arrange a chase boat in the bigger channels, I take it.

I stroke into the inky stain of the St. Lucia channel. As usual, to rest different muscle groups, I alternate between paddling prone and kneeling. The 20-knot northeast wind blows against me. The eastbound current, always strong in the windward islands, hustles me westward at one and a half knots. To make landfall in St. Anne, a town on the south tip of Martinique, I must paddlle above my destination by 45 degrees. A tough day, so I turn to my Rinpoche, the horizon. Though I can’t allow myself the luxury of yearning for what lies beyond its simple statement, I can dream of what’s out there—in this case Martinique—and I can paddle toward it.

The horizon comforts me. Though I feel like an outsider on the open sea, I’m always at the center of something. The horizon lassos me eternally with its equidistant circle, and teases me: it looks straight, yet it’s the gateway to curvature; its simple conclusion is really a complex beginning.

           Though I meditate on the horizon and visualize myself flowing effortlessly as moonlight toward Martinique, there’s agony in setting off to paddle 22 miles in rough conditions.

So I cast around for someone other than me to blame for my pain.

Tom Blake, a pioneering surfer and recognized in 1929 as the father of paddleboarding unwittingly built the first paddleboard by constructing a replica of the the 16ft., 120-lb. olo surfboard once used by Hawaiian kings. To make the board lighter, Blake drilled holes in it. He took the design to California where the board was copied. Paddleboard races—most of which Blake himself won—were held in California and Hawaii. Watermen wanting to stay in top shape began to paddle, and the crown jewels of paddleboard racing—the 32-mile Catalina Classic paddleboard race (from Catalina Island to the California mainland), and the 32-mile Molokai to Oahu race, were born.

           Other shapers, such as Pete Peterson, Dale Velzy and Mike Eaton, and eventually Joe Bark and Craig Lockwood, began to make paddleboards.

           Paddleboarding appeals to fitness freaks and racers, but a few wacky, admirable adventurers have surfaced in the sport: In 1946, a massive waterman living in Hawaii named Gene “Tarzan” Smith who was known to have a temper like a stepped-on fer de lance snake and reputedly lived in a cave linked the islands in the Hawaiian chain.

          Most noteworthy of paddleboard adventurers is the late Larry Capune. In the ‘60’s and early 70’s, Capune, a meticulous, superfit California lifeguard (often paddling 30 miles a day) paddled both coasts of the United States and parts of the east coast twice.

My own history with paddleboarding dates back to 1992 when I hocked my digs in San Diego, California and bought a new surfboard. “Someone must know what they’re doing,” the kid salesman said, handing me my new drop-railed, pointy board, but not meeting my eye. I’d spent some years surfing in California, but my son, too, had his doubts about my surfing.“Mom,” he said, “your bottom turn looks like a convulsion.” When my son went away to school and I turned 50, I set off on a worldwide, low-key, backpacking surf safari that took me through 20 countries and lasted three years.

            I visited Fiji and was told Tavarua Island was the place to surf. Scott Funk, a blond-god-type camp director at Tavarua advised me one day when the surf was flat, “Hey! Why don’t you paddle over there?” He pointed at a sandy, gleaming islet about two miles from Tavarua. Deciding to take Scott’s advice, I paddled over easily on my surfboard, but on the way back a windstorm gusted in. Scott, who had been observing me from a watchtower on Tavarua, said he was going to rescue me. “But I knew you probably wouldn’t get in the boat… Ya know,” he said, “Maybe the problem you have with surfboards is you try to stand up on ‘em. You’re a paddler. Get a paddleboard.”

            I was insulted at first, but later saw Scott’s wisdom. While surfing around the world, I paddled my surfboard on coastal exploration and recognized that paddling can be a form of travel. Also, paddling, I found, is the perfect complement to surfing, which demands paddling stamina.

I ended my surf safari in ’95 and returned to California where I saw the finish of the Catalina Classic paddleboard race. A young paraplegic paddler was carried from the finish line up the beach by admiring buddies like a hero. I was moved by this spectacle and wanted to do the race. In ’96, I moved to Tortola, which had been the first destination on my surf safari. Paddling between islands, I trained for and completed the ’96 Catalina Classic. In ‘97, I raced from Molokai to Oahu and placed second among women.

           Paddling in the Virgin Islands had kindled an interest: It was possible to cruise the Caribbean on a paddleboard.

           My first such cruise, in ’98, connected all 60 British Virgin Islands, and covered a distance of 200 miles.

The blare of a horn returns me to the present moment. It’s 2003, 7:30 in the morning, and I’m about 6 miles into my 22-mile journey across the St. Lucia channel. Already, the sun is far up in the sky. I gulp water from my water pouch. My chase boat captain, Ulrich, a greyhound of an Austrian who runs sub-three-hour marathons and owns a St. Lucia charter company, toots his horn and motors up beside me in the catamaran, which yaws wildly in the wind and swell.

           “You’re losing!” Ulli bellows, meaning I’m losing the race against the westbound current. “You’re moving at less than two knots. Head up!” I can see that Martinique, a vague, tall shimmer on the horizon, has drifted to my right, which means I’m being drawn into the hundreds of miles between me and Central America.

            I float for a moment beside the catamaran like a prizefighter in a clinch—though I never allow myself to touch the boat. John, Ulli’s crew, a relaxed, middle-aged man who loves beer, offers me sandwiches and oranges held over the side of the boat on his fishing pole. Ulli reminds me that the longer I sit still, the more I’m swept to the west.

           There is nothing for me to do but paddle. The haze is so thick on the ocean I can’t see St. Lucia or Martinique. I work with my guru the horizon. I beg it to give me Martinique; I want to paddle to my chase boat and quit. But, as the moment of my death might see into my heart, if I were to die alone, the horizon would witness my courage or failure. The sun, sea and I all feel hot. Everything heats to body temperature. I’m a cell in the bloodstream of the universe. As a part of such wholeness, I feel necessary. I was afraid of failing. But, like a cloud, waterfall or breaking wave, I realize I can’t give a bad performance. Like them, in a perfect, momentary, yet eternal, way, I am the flawless response to the circumstances that put me here and the forces that lead me on.

“You’re halfway there!” Ulli shouts. My chase boat has sneaked up on me. John offers more food from his fishing pole. I’ve been paddling for four and half hours. Mt. Pelee, Martinique’s lethal volcano whose 1902 eruption killed 27,000 people, comes into focus..

 The wind has clocked south of east and blows directly behind me. Having temporarily won the battle against current, I can enjoy the best in paddleboarding. In a following wind, paddleboarding is much like surfing. Though a paddler doesn’t stand up as on a surfboard, it’s possible to ride downwind on swells, pick up speed, and surf in a fluid motion from one wave to another. Both surfing and paddling provide me with unfiltered access to the ocean’s moods. And the act of paddling a big channel takes the same commitment and focus as riding a big wave.

           But today, the wind in the St. Lucia channel isn’t strong enough to allow me to surf wave to wave. My best experience with downwind surfing, I remember, was in the Columbus passage, the 22-mile channel between Grand Turk and South Caicos in the Turks and Caicos. I had a 25-knot tailwind. Surfing steadily downwind, I crossed Columbus Passage in 7 hours.

To celebrate whenever I make a long slide down a wave face, Ulli toots and John waves a beer bottle. I’m only five miles from Martinique. I take a last food break and distract myself with memories as I paddle the remaining miles to Martinique.

 The St. Lucia channel will be my seventh paddling trip, all of which, as a paddleboarder, I have pioneered.

 I try to remember one thing about each of my previous trips that make it unique.

In the British Virgin Island (’98), where I connected the 60 British Virgin Islands and paddled 200 miles, it was the ocean. In the same way as a prism breaks light into its rainbow of colors, the Virgin Islands act as a prism for the sea and break their coastal waters into an extraordinary spectrum of blues as greens.

           Paddling the Grenadines (’99), I was precariously balanced on a tightrope between the Caribbean Sea and Atlantic Ocean. With trepidation and respect, I felt priveleged to watch the two mighty seas talk to each other in waves, wind and current. Fishermen in the Grenadines have an uncanny, intuitive knowledge of weather and current. During my 100-mile paddle from St. Vincent to Grenada, I conferred with fishermen and had no problems . But one day I paddled a 15-mile channel without getting local knowledge. Against current, I paddled in place for two and a half hours to avoid being swept into the Atltanic Ocean.

           My visit to the Turks and Caicos islands (2000), where I connected the major islands and discovered a pristine marine and island habitat for wildlife, was summed up by the Director of Tourism. When I asked how best to promote his country, he put a finger to his lips.

 In the Exumas (2000) where I paddled 150 miles from Exuma to Nassau, I acquired a thunderstorm phobia. I was forced by a storm to take refuge in a cave from which I saw lightning strike the ocean. As the lightning bolt disappeared, it raised a dome of greenish light that hung above the sea surface. I never learned—nor could anyone tell me—what this was.

 The Jumentos (2001), Bahamian islands so remote they don’t appear on charts, call to mind Perseus Wilson. Percy was born in the Jumentos and lives on Ragged Island, the Jumentos’ only inhabited island where the population hovers at 48. Percy had hauled a crashed aiplane off the runway and turned it into a restaurant where he is the five-star chef. When I dropped by on my way to paddle the Jumentos’ 93 miles of wilderness, Percy told me I was his only customer in a year.

           Paddling the 26-mile Dominica channel between Martinique and Dominica (2002) was about determination A Martiniquean mayor had promised to sponsor me a chase boat, but when he saw me, he cancelled my sponsorship and said, “Mais non. C’est impossible.” Which meant, essentially, “No way, babe, can a woman your age paddle a surfboard across a 25-mile channel.” So I said, “Watch me!”; and I did it.

           The 25-mile Guadeloupe channel (2002) between Dominica and Guadeloupe, gave me a good reward. When I arrived in Les Saintes, islands off the south tip of Guadeloupe, fishermen came out in their wooden boats and sang French Creole songs to welcome me in.

           But now, in 2003, I’ve crossed the St. Lucia channel in nine hours and am rewarded by my arrival in Martinique. I can see my destination, the French hamlet of St. Anne, just ahead of me. Ulli lobs the anchor into chartreuse, shallow water.

          Whenever I arrive via paddleboard in a foreign island nation, I can’t help but wonder how I’ll by received by Customs and Immigration.

In Carriacou, a small island I paddled to in ’99—and Grenada’s north outpost—I was arrested by Customs “for not delcaring my vessel on arrival in Grenada”. Tired after paddling 80 miles from St. Vincent, I retired for the night to a basic waterfront guesthouse called Ade’s Dream. The next morning, Carriacou’s dj Kim da King invited me to speak about paddleboarding on the radio, which I did. On emerging from the radio station, I was seized by a muscular, young Customs officer. “So where dis ting you come on?” he asked. “What de name your vessel? Where it registered? Though I took the officer to Ade’s Dream Guesthouse where my paddleboard rested between two throbbing washing machines in the laundry room, he said, “You float here from St. Vincent. You will obey Grenada law.” He fined me $500.

           Ulli reassures me that I mustn’t worry about Customs in Martinique: he will declare me part of his crew when he checks in with Customs himself.

As I paddle the last hundred yards to shore, Ulli and John buzz after me in a dinghy. Once I’m off my board and set foot on the sand in St. Anne, my legs almost collapse. A flood of joy, agony in my shoulders, neck, chin, the numbness of mental exhaustion, pour over me. Ulli waves my old Nikonos 5 camera which which he’s been snapping pictures of me from the boat. “Here,” Ulli says, positioning me with St. Lucia in the background. “Stand here.” He fusses with my old camera. “The hell you doing?” I moan. I want to hibernate. Ulli tilts the old machine. “It try to get ze horisson straight,” he says.

           St. Lucia squats like a dark toad on the horizon, 22 miles away. I realize the role of the horizon. For photographers, who try to keep it straight in their photos, it’s God. For minimalists to whom its simplicity appeals, it’s quintessence. For sailors, surfers and paddleboarders who face it every day with love and rage, it’s guru, parent, and taskmaster. Hynotizing, instructing, beating us with its sheer presence, the horizon makes us realize that from its slim straight edge our round world with us and all our dreams aboard hangs like a drop of water ready to fall.

          “Congratulations,” John says, clapping my back that feels like the mythical juggernaut has passed several times over it.

          “Thanks,” I say.

          “What will you do now?” asks Ulli.

           “The St. Vincent channel,” I say, and stagger, still on my sea legs, into La Dunette Hotel, a little, colorful, French-styled accommodation. Once in my simple room, I pull the curtain.

          Above all, I don’t want the horizon to see me naked. Though it’s the sum of my life, my bottom line, the horizon’s not my love.

Copyright © 2004 Susan Chaplin. All rights reserved.
May not be republished without permission.

  
Copyright © 2008 Eaton Enterprises. All rights reserved.