PADDLEBOARD JOURNAL: The Amazing Paddleboard

Adventures of Larry Capune © 2001

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May 11, 1987

I was already awake when the street lights along Lakeshore Drive winked off.

Rolling out of my sleeping bag, I rubbed the condensation off the van’s windows. Outside, Lake Michigan, glassy and still dark, lapped at its banks.

First thing on my mind was the question everyone who’s paddled long distance on a board  asks themselves: What’s the weather doing?  

Squinting nervously toward the empty horizon into the rising sun, I could see clear sky. Good. The wind was down. Better. It was, blowing offshore, from the west. Not bad.

I let out the breath I’d been holding and felt my heart rate drop. My usual first-day nerves, working double-time today, backed off some.

I always felt that way before I started out. Apprehension. And not just a little fear. This was the beginning of my longest journey.

Beneath my nervousness, I began to feel a little excitement creeping in. I was starting a new adventure this morning,  something different, something I’d planned for months.

Then the damn nervousness took control again. I swallowed. What the hell was I was getting my butt into? How long was this going to take?

Forget it. It’s only pre-start anxiety. Screw it, I re-assured myself, it’s normal. Every trip started like this. I climbed out and stretched. My brother Marty joined me. We stood looking at the Lake. We could have been in Santa Monica, staring west out over the Pacific--except there was no Catalina. There was nothing on horizon, This was one big lake.

Traffic was still light at this hour. People on their way to work. Trucks rolling in to make early deliveries.  

Marty climbed into the front seat and started our VW bus and pulled out into traffic. With my big Hobie paddleboard Islander on the racks and the trip signs taped to the windows, we looked like a couple of displaced surfers.

Spotting a McDonald's ahead, I nudged Marty and pointed. Parking, we made for the counter. Marty sidetracked to the pay phone to make his media calls.

In a booth near a window, with the sun streaming in, and chowing down Egg McMuffins, things looked better. Around me, Chicago's working world—men in suits. secretaries putting on thie make-up, tradesmen in overalls, everyone drinking coffee, noses buried in the sports or financial pages.

I could guess where they were going, what they were doing, but could any of them even begin to comprehend what the next 24 hours, let alone the next six months would be like for me?

No way. Aside from some marks on a map even I couldn’t begin to guess what lay ahead. And it only made me nervous to think about it. I picked up another Mc Muffin.

Tanking up before starting a five to seven or eight hour stint is mandatory. A big breakfast. Oatmeal, bacon, eggs, toast, juice, coffee. It may not be health food, but at 60 to 90 strokes a minute repeated hour after hour it burns up pretty fast.

This would have to do, I thought, and chomped into my third hockey puck.

I glanced at my watch. Damn! Later than I’d realized. Where the hell was Marty? Cramming down the last of my McMuffins, I grabbed Marty’s breakfast I glanced towerd the door. We had to be back by eight-thirty. The press was due at nine.

Suddenly I felt the weight of those McBarfins in my gut.

“Marty, hurry up,” I yelled. “Food’s getting cold.”

"Thanks." Marty dumped across from me. He look at the chow and shook his head.

“What's the matter?”

“I got through to all the TV people.” He picked up the muffin, sniffed it, took a tentative bite. “Nobody was interested.”

“Aw, shit, Marty. They'll show up.”

He gave me his don’t-count-on-it look.

“Listen,” I said, “if the Chicago media don’t show up we’ll pick up coverage. It’s worked that way before. Kind of like a snowball effect.”

“Yeah, but what starts the snowball rolling.” Marty stired his lukewarm coffee and took a sip.

“Doesn’t matter. I’m committed. I’m doing the trip no matter what.”

Part of my objective for this trip was getting my anti-drug message out. Kids were vulnerable to all the wrong influences, and my message was simple: Life’s the biggest adventure of all. You don’t need much. Do what you can with what you’ve got.

Marty glanced at his clipboard and the crossed off names: CBS, NBC, ABC, CNN, Associated Press, Chicago Tribune.

“I hope you’re right,” he mumbled beneath his breath.

“My main worry’s just getting through the next few hours. This is a thirty-four mile leg, bro. Let’s hustle.”

Piling back into the bus we headed for central Chicago.

By eight, we’d reached the John Hancock Center's one hundred foot tower. Beneath it was our totally deserted take-off spot, Olive Park Beach. Three gulls skimmed in and settled down to see if I was going to feed them.

Short, choppy waves slapped hard on the sand. The westerly offshore was ruffling the lake’s surface. Damn. No more glassy conditions.

Standing there in the sun, I thought about what I’d carved out for myself. This wasn’t going to be the longest trip—it would be a hundred miles shorter than my Maine to Corpus Christi paddle. But it could damn well be my hardest. And it was looking like it was going to get hard fast if this wind kept up.

I climbed up and unstrapped Islander, muscled its 80-pound bulk onto my head, and walked down to the water.
     Marty sat in the bus and nursed his coffee. Seeing me coming, the gulls took off, beating into thewind for a few strokes, then turning and tailwinding it out over the lake

Slipping into my shortie wetsuit, I re-checked my gear. I wasn’t using my black-rubber World War II surplus UTD pack this trip. Instead, I wrapped a fishing knife, two railroad flares, two lightsticks, my peanut butter and jelly sandwiches and two cans of 7-Up, and my little portable radio up into a tight foam and plastic package and lashed it behind Islander’s splash guard.

Most important were the new charts, and I studied the first one. I’d drawn a line and compass course to Gary, Indiana, my first night’s stopover.  

As anyone knows who’s paddled a board, a chart’s about as close to what you’ll actually experience, as looking at a picture of a surfer in a magazine is to actually riding a wave.

One of the TV station vans drove up and began unloading gear. I gave Marty the thumbs up. It wasn’t long before another crew, and then a third, along with assorted photojournalists and newspaper reporters began tip-toeing through the sand trying to avoid getting the stuff in their nice shoes. 

  Things were heating up. The Tribune and Chicago Sun newspaper reporters had their notebooks and pocket recorders out. Bystanders were accumulalting—like flies—or vultures. There’s always one in every crowd, some dick-head put-down artist.

“So, where’s he s’posed ta be goin?”

Marty sized the guy up. “He’s headed to Washington. You know, where the President is?”

The guy looked at me and shook his head.

“Washington, sure I hearda Washington. But you’re nuts. Betcha he ain’t never gonna make it.”

“Hey, I’ll take your little bet,” Marty played him, “When he does, make sure you contribute twenty bucks to the anti-drug campaign, OK? See, that’s why he’s doing this. To help the kids, offer an example of what you can do. And you can bet he’ll make it. He’s doing it for them.”

Marty, with his 20 years entertainment world experience, began fielding questions as Channels 2, 7 and 9 began testing their sound equipment. Photographers began posing me by my board and setting up their shots.

“Larry promised America’s kids he’d make this paddle.” he began. “thanks for coming and giving him this sendoff.”

“How far’s he going,” shouted one reporter.

“To Washington D.C. Four thousand miles. He’s using his own energy, his own determination and guts. He’s showing them that by not taking the easy way out, by not using drugs and being healthy you can have the adventure of a lifetime.”

“Tell him not to drink that Lake Erie water,” jived a TV cameraman.

“Yeah,” Marty shot back, his CP 16R news camera over his shoulder shooting his own footage, “Remind me to remind him when he gets there.”

Marty’s quip drew a few chuckles. Erie was one hell of a long way from here. And everybody knew it. But it was a canny move as well because it meant he was offering the reporter a follow-up lead. You can bet he’d be contacting us the minute we hit Lake Erie’s less-than-pristine waters.

By now it was nearly 9:30. I had a long haul ahead. I gave Marty a hi-five.

Wading in with my board, the water was so cold it burned. Nothing had changed since my last workout paddle, yesterday. Forty-ball-shrinking-eight degrees. My ankles and then my knees ached. I took a shallow dive and came up trying to hide the fact that I was gasping for air. Now I had to get moving just to warm up.

Throwing one leg over Islander I gave the growing crowd a final good-bye wave, went to prone and took the first of that day’s 20,000 strokes.

 In a few moments everything slipped away. I was alone now. in that zone of above-water sound and silence that every long-distance paddleboarder knows. Your board makes its own noises as you move it through the water. Other than that, you have the sky and water.

I turned on my AM radio, my informal direction-finder/companion. I looked for the strongest station featuring a morning news show or a well-known local DJ who Marty could contact and keep updated.

I was actually underway, started what was to be one of my coldest and most difficult trips. This first day would be a 10-mile shakedown leg, a stop in Gary, Indiana and then 24 more miles which was farther than most first days in the past.  That in itself was scary. Especially since I hadn't scheduled any lunch stops with Marty, who was to head directly to Gary after finishing up with the media.

It was nine thirty, May 11th, and I was on my way.  

Copyright © 2001 Larry Capune. All rights reserved.
Copyright © 1996-2001 Eaton Enterprises. All rights reserved.
May not be republished without permission.