A summer in the Parc, part 1

This the first of two catchup posts of my summer visits to the Parc de la Rivière-des-Mille-Îles.

Saturday April 30, 2011

My very first trip this year was two weeks before rentals opened, on April 30, when I did a Saturday scouting expedition, thinking that if I could find a good launch site close to the west side of the Park and the marsh, I would return with the Dragonfly on the Sunday and get a jump on the summer. I hopped off the 73 bus at the gate to the Parc, and trotted down to the landing, meeting the water rather before I expected: the small steep muddy beach that serves as a launch site was underwater, as was the bank above the beach, as were the trees at the top of the bank. The gangway to the dock, instead of sloping down, sloped up to the dock; the anchor point was underwater. Across the flooded channel, I could see various forlorn pieces of summer equipment. I estimated the water was six or seven feet above the ordinary level.

I followed the Boulevard Sainte-Rose west, detouring down side streets down to follow glimpses of the water, and eventually down a km-long packed mud track past the golf course on the west side of des Laurentides which accessed the footbridge over to Île Locas. Last summer, I'd seen fishermen casting from dirt shoulders on either side of the bridge. No dirt shoulders now; I would have had somehow to scramble down the bank and directly into the boat. That after a kilometer or so of slog. Everywhere the river was up over its banks and in amongst the trees. In midchannel, it was the colour of cold milky coffee, and briskly moving. I saw a single kayaker paddling upstream in a yellow hardshell boat that was the brightest colour in the landscape, but I could just envision myself trying to make headway in my own little yellow Dragonfly, with its flat bottom and metronome swivel. Or not.

May 22, 2011

Three weeks later, the rentals were open and the cherry blossoms were out, although the sun wasn't. The day was grey and chill, courtesy of The Spring that Never Was, but not raining, not blowing, and I was not to be stopped.



I headed upstream, paddling against the current beneath the bridge to Île Gagnon, and up along the south bank of the river, underneath the autoroute des Laurentides and then south of Île Lacroix. Where Île Lacroix bends, the woods at the river's edge were flooded deeply enough for me to take the kayak into them, which I did.



I was sitting in my kayak, with the nose against grassy mud, looking around, when I caught sight of a distinctive striped pointed shape underwater off my bow. I misparsed it at first, thinking snake, and the sudden flaring of the front flippers was disconcerting (Hooded cobra! Way too many B-movies at an impressionable age). I recognized it just as it began to float upwards to the surface, and I snuck a hand out for the camera. At that point, unfortunately, the turtle recognized me as foreign and possibly threatening. Flippers, head, snapped back into its shell, lying almost edge-on to the surface, and almost hidden in mud. I waited. It poked its head gingerly out a couple more times, but each time was quicker to withdraw, so I decided to do the polite thing, and take myself off.

On the other hand, nothing and no one was going to put this muskrat off the reed it was munching with all the blissful obliviousness of a child left alone with a stick of rock candy, sitting on a mat of rotten last-summer leftovers under the flooded trees.



The sight of the marsh itself was a shock. With the water this high, I'd anticipated being able to get well into it, but . . . where was the marsh? Where was the land? Nothing remained but a grey expanse of water with some brown stubble of last year's reeds. I wandered the watery wastes in bewilderment, round the back of the little island that used to be, took photographs of the bare marooned trunks and sodden branches, and strange cocoons wrapped around desiccated reeds (which came out blurry, autofocus having favoured the stark branches in the background). The only visible living critter was another muskrat crouching on a root knuckle and looking distinctly morning-after-ish. But although the day was dull and the early spring colours were drab, the birds were feeling anything but (pan movie of the marsh).




For lunch, I sat on the steps at Île Gagnon, with the kayak hitched to the upright and floating at my feet. I watched the grey waters and the sparse traffic, three or four kayaks, a couple of outboards. Then I paddled across to the north side of the river, past Île aux Moutons - I didn't feel like fighting the current alongside Île de Mai - between Îles Chabot and Clermont, and up and around Île Thibault, with the intention of checking on the activity underneath the bridge from the Autoroute de Laurentides, where I had seen swallows nest-building last summer. I was too early in the year; the only nests were abandoned ones, and it was not easy staying on station, against the current, to get a photograph. Going under the bridges, riding the current, was entertaining. 



 

Also between Île Thibault and Île Lefebre, as best I can tell on the map, there's a wooden bridge over a stretch of marsh, which I was able to paddle under, and in amongst the trees, look back out at the river. Somewhere around there, another muskrat was making short work of another reed.



And then I crossed over above Île des Juifs, came round the top of Île Gagnon, through the tunnel under the roadbridge, and let the current sweep me back to the landing. Mission accomplished.

A golden ending

This was it, the end, the last weekend of rentals, both at the Parc de la Riviere, and at Îles de Boucherville. And what a gorgeous weekend it was, with highs in the low twenties all three days. The one hitch was strong SW wind warnings for both Saturday and Sunday, and a forecast of NW 10-15 knots for Monday as the cooling-off began. But I would have braved worse, for one last paddle. Plus, a fellow epidemiologist and I had been working on getting out on the river together for over a year; between her schedule, my schedule, and the Spring That Did Not Happen and Was That Really August?, this was our last chance. So off we went, on Monday morning, to the Parc de la Riviere. And we were rewarded with one of the best kayaking days I've seen on the river, warm, bright sunshine on golden leaves, barely a whisper of wind, a day when a mere wave of the paddle seemed to send the kayak gliding ahead.



We arrived at the Parc on the 10 am bus, got kitted up, and (after some circling around and taking photographs) headed out along a much narrowed and diminished channel, east around the tip of Île Gagnon; the river had fallen far enough that the water under the bridge carrying the Rue de l'Île Gagnon was not navigable. The river was as low as I had seen it, very shallow except for the main channels, and murky, and it was all too easy to miss large rocks until the moment of contact (or painfully prolonged period of contact), even when not looking anywhere but ahead of the brow. My boat acquired a few more scratches to add to its scars.



We paddled up the south side of the river, towards the marsh. We were not the only ones on the river: several pairs of kayakers and a few canoes, most of them colour-coordinated with the foliage: oranges and reds. This is the season for orange boats. That's my paddling companion Daphne on the left, and a canoe group whom we kept passing, on the water and on the islands, here illustrating the exquisite calm of the water.



At the marsh, more autumnal glory and less water. The bird lookout was hard up against the exposed ground and reeds.



For the purposes of contrast (I do intend to do a catch-up digest post of the paddles I have not yet documented this year), here is a view of the same area in May, while the meltwaters were still coming down the river. That single tree is off to the right of the October photograph, high on dry land and surrounded by tall green reeds.



As another indication of how much the water level has fallen: the first time I paddled this year, that fairly chilly, overcast day in late May, I stopped for lunch at Île Chabon, hitching myself from the cockpit of my kayak directly onto the bottom step of the stairs shown in this photograph. We stopped at Chabon today, too, and discovered that there was no picnic table, but we ate sitting on our PFDs on a lookout platform over the channel between Chabot and "the mainland".



After lunch, we checked out the turtle pullouts along the south side of Île Chabot, but either it was not quite warm enough, or too early in the day: no turtles. We saw a single turtle in shallow, rock and stem-studded shallows at the upstream side of Île Ducharme, but the water had fallen even lower than a month ago, when I found another series of turtle pullouts on the east side of that bridge, and we could not get past the bridge. The herons were dispersed along the riverbank, fishing. The warm weather seemed to have put them in a mellow mood, unlike last year. I'd left my my camera with the zoom lens at home - I'm at the stage in learning when there's a lot of fumbling and muttering over the manual - so my photographs were generally of brilliant foliage with a bird in there somewhere. One of the herons looked almost pure white. It had a heron shape, at least from a distance, and heron stalking motions, but no apparent markings.



Gradually, we worked our way back across the river and back to the location d'embarcations, returned all the gear, and headed for the 3:35 pm bus back to Cartier and thence back to Montréal. And so the season ends.

Sigh. But what a golden ending.

Run Over?

Just found a link from the forum at Advanced Elements to another forum -- this one for motorhome enthusiasts. The post it links to is from one of their senior members, Nigel, who is also into kayaking. He tells how he was run over by a power boat a few days ago.
Scroll down through the well-wishing to see Nigel's description of his decision to capsize and how his feet were injured. He's lucky to be alive. If Nigel hadn't capsized, the injuries (which were bad enough) might have been to his head. And if the yobs who ran him over hadn't stopped to help him, Nigel probably wouldn't have made it to shore on his own.
Memo to self:
-I'm invisible in my kayak. Yes, this colourfuly-dressed person in a bright kayak is invisible.
-Larger boats might move faster but are unable to steer out of MY way, I must stay out of THEIR way.
-My kayak's place in the spectrum of boats from floating log to ferry is solidly in the "speedbump" category.
-When a collision with a high-speed boat is inevitable, roll over (away from the approaching boat) to take the blow on the hull instead of my upper body. It's possible the fast boat will slide over my kayak, and push me down for a second or two.

Pumpkin My Ride

Most kayaks are long and pointy and made from fibreglass or plastic. Some are round and made from plant-based materials that you can toss in your compost after you're done. And number of the latter took part in today's 13th Annual Pumpkin Regatta in Windsor, Nova Scotia. According to the CBC (where the picture is from), today's winner was a local school headmaster who finally tasted victory on his fourth try.
Here's a link to a CBC video report showing how to convert a pumpkin into a kayak (sorry, no embed).

Paddle to the Arctic/ Kabloona in the Yellow Kayak

In the early 1980s, Don Starkell and his son Dana paddled a canoe from Winnipeg to the mouth of the Amazon river in Brazil. For an encore in the 1990s, Don attempted to kayak the fabled Northwest Passage in the Canadian Arctic, from Churchill, Manitoba to Tuktoyaktuk, Northwest Territory. His first attempt in 1990, a solo attempt, ended quickly after a disastrous spill on his third day of paddling. It took him nine days of paddling through wretched conditions to return to his starting point. Despite vowing never to return, in 1991 he returned for another try, this time with two other paddlers. One soon dropped out of the expedition but the other, Victoria Jason, continued on with Don and together they paddled as far as Repulse Bay on the northern shore of Hudson Bay. Despite the utter incompatibility of their personalities, they returned to Repulse Bay in 1992 to continue the journey. They set out from Repulse Bay attempting to follow Don's plan to pull their kayaks on sleds across the frozen ice until they reached open water from which to launch from. The two of them pulled their kayaks across the ice for almost three weeks, until Vicki had to withdraw due to injuries. Don continued on alone, pulling his kayak for another three weeks before reaching open water. Injuries, bad weather and bad choices worked against Don, and he almost met his demise just miles from his destination. He was rescued, but severe frostbite cost him most of his fingers and some of his toes.
There's enough adventures here for more than one book, and in fact two did grew out of this expedition: Starkell's Paddle to the Arctic, and Jason's Kabloona in the Yellow Kayak. And if you've ever wanted to experience a "he said, she said" version of how a kayaking expedition can go wrong, this is as probably as good as you're going to get.
It's clear from his book that Starkell was a driven man, and seemingly would let almost nothing get in the way of completing his expedition. Not even his paddling partners. He consistently and often rudely ignored advice from his partners and from the local residents and indigenous peoples who knew how to survive in this remote and dangerous part of the world. Despite years of planning, he made mistakes like neglecting to pack all the charts required or checking that his kayak compass was working correctly before setting out. In one notably gaffe, he lead himself and Jason over 100 km off course by paddling east when he though he was paddling west. Even the sun rising from the totally opposite side of the horizon than it should was not enough to convince him that he might be wrong. I lost count of how many times in this book the phrase "Instead, I decided to play a hunch" was followed a page or so later by "It didn't go the way I expected."
I'm not suggesting this isn't a good book -- it is -- but you will be pulling your hair out as Starkell's situation goes from bad to worse. To be fair, Starkell seems to realize that many of the obstacles were of his own making, and he is a much humbler man at the end of the book.

Victoria's story doesn't end when she pulls out of the 1992 expedition. Her book covers not only the 1991 and 1992 expeditions in all their exasperating details, but her return to Arctic in 1993 and 1994 when she kayaked down the McKenzie River from Great Slave Lake to the Arctic Ocean and then continued along the northern shore, duplicating the final leg of Don's trip but in reverse. And it's here that her book really shines, with wonderful descriptions of the scenery and people she meets along the way. She returned in 1996 to paddle the parts of the original trip that was accomplished by sled in 1992, and returned to the Arctic again over the next couple of years. She was working on another book on her further Arctic adventures when she took ill and passed away in 2000.
These books are the classic example of what can happen when not understanding your partner's motivation to for paddling. In this case, one was paddling for the experience of it, while the other was paddling it apparently just for the sake of doing it. As Neil Peart once wrote in a Rush song, "The point of the journey is not to arrive."

Derek Hutchinson

Yesterday evening, Louise and I attended our first SISKA event as actual members, an evening with Derek Hutchinson. The godfather of modern sea kayaking is a born raconteur and described in humorous detail his attempts to be the first person to kayak across the North Sea. He was a treat to listen to and the audience of about 100 paddlers enjoyed his watery tales.
Unfortunately, the lighting in the hall was not the best and my pictures of the event suck. But at least there was a spectacular sunset outside

Lila and Yves

The seasons are changing, the proof being in the gloomy skies and cool air. As Louise and I waited on the Cadboro Bay beach for our co-paddlers, the sun was hidden behind puffy grey clouds. We could see off-shore showers on the horizon, and a soft by cool breeze foreshadowed the stronger winds predicted to come later in the day.


But we weren't planning a long paddle today. In fact today's would be rather short and safe. We were being joined by Paula, as well as her daughter Lila and her new husband Yves who are visiting from Edmonton. Neither are experienced kayakers, in fact this was Yves' first time in a kayak and he is not a good swimmer, so we were going to stick close to shore. Also, we didn't have a lot of time to paddle as Yves wanted to attend pirate school later in the day.


And off we went. Paula put her herself and Yves into her inflatable....

....while Lila went out in the Pamlico.


Louise and I in our Delta sea kayaks kept the lead, usually without even trying. Seals were popping up here and there, but they were very shy and unapproachable.


I managed to sneak off and take and watch some cormorants.


And after a quick trip to the point and back, we were done.


Trip Length: 3.90 km
YTD: 207.04 km
More pictures are here.

Lost Kayakers

To anyone who has been hearing the local news, it's the kind of story our friends and family have been dreading. Two kayaks have been found off Sooke, near Victoria, yesterday and the day before, say the news reports. This morning, September 29, the local CBC radio station reported that two young men who were working in the area are now missing. It looks like they might have set out into less than ideal weather conditions.
No, none of us at Kayak Yak know the missing men. But that doesn't make the story any better.
When we comment here on our blog about boating safety, or getting a new PFD like John did on the weekend, or practising wet exits and re-entry, it's not just a bunch of hot air. This is the kind of stuff that can save your life -- or lose it.
Sooke basin is a terrific place to paddle. We've been there many times, mostly on calm days. Sometimes we challenged ourselves with steady wind and waves, or consistent currents. The bay seems so sheltered until the wind changes direction. Once we launch, it's easy to get away from the sound and sight of the town and of the houses scattered along some of the shore. And a couple of times, we've faced a few challenges that seemed perfectly fine ten seconds earlier. So far we've all come home, and we've even brought our boats home.
Even in familiar places, it's possible for a person in a kayak or other small boat to have unexpected problems. I hope that anyone reading our blog takes safety seriously -- personal safety and group safety! Accidents happen to everyone. Sometimes being prepared helps.
Last weekend I came to shore on Cadboro Bay's Gyro Park beach just as a young man was launching. We said hi to each other, and he glanced at my kayak's deck.
"Too much stuff," he said.
Well, I did have a spare paddle, water pump, and throw bag of rope on the front deck, and a paddle float on the back. (Mike Jackson stores all that gear inside his cockpit, because he wants a clear deck so he can roll. I can't roll.) I shrugged and said, "Safety gear."
He shook his head. "Too much."
Did I take him more seriously because he was in a well-worn kayak, a muscular First Nations man with a fishing line looped on his deck? Did I take him less seriously because he wasn't wearing a PFD or a kayak skirt?
I thought about him when hearing the news reports of the missing kayakers off Sooke. A PFD won't always save your life... it might keep one from drowning long enough to die of cold, and in these cold waters that can take about half an hour. Then it makes you easier to find.
All the safety gear we carry (and it's required by law here in Canada) is no guarantee of safety. It's just tools that might be useful. We have put them to use, too.
It's hard waiting to hear the news reports from Sooke.
Be careful out there.

And Now, A Word From Our Sponsor...

An ad from a 1959 issue of Life.

Ocean River's 30th Anniversary

Yesterday when Louise and I headed down to Ocean River's fall sale, we had no idea that the store was celebrating its 30th anniversary. But the folks at the local paper did, and yesterday they published a profile of the store and its owner, Brian Henry. Brian has had a long career in the kayaking industry -- he was also a co-founder of Current Design kayaks. Check out his story here.

Ocean River Gear Grab

A foggy day dawned-- wait a minute, does a foggy day actually dawn? Or does it just slowly emerge from the darkness of the night? In any event, it was foggy this morning as Louise and I headed down to Ocean River Sports for their annual fall sale. We were a little late, so we had to go to the back of a very long line....

....although it seemed like some people would wear almost any disguise to sneak in.


We checked out the boats....

...and Louise checked out a couple of them very closely.


We got away lightly this time. Louise didn't buy anything, and I replaced my long-serving Kokatat PFD with the latest model. And we saw something that you don't see everyday:

He was either plugging Icebreaker , or one of the start of semester parties got a little out of hand last night.

Tall ships and warships and kayaks, oh my! (Sunday September 18, 2011)

So, on paper (on screen), the itinerary looked awful, despite my having the tolerance for lousy connections that comes with being a hardened veteran of public transit. As of Labour Day weekend, only one of the four navettes to Parc des Îles de Boucherville is still ferrying. The (hourly from 1000) ferry leaves on the hour. The (hourly) Sunday bus to the ferry arrives at the nearest stop 2 minutes to the hour, with a long, high footbridge over the highway between stop and dock. On the way back, the (hourly until 1730) ferry leaves the island at half past the hour. The (hourly) bus leaves the stop near the dock about 28 minutes past the hour. Added to that, this ferry pulls in at a jetty on Île Charron an extra 1 km of path away from the kayak rental.

But it was an ideal kayaking day, and I live in the neighbourhood of a stadium. The morning of a big game usually features successive serenades by tow trucks, brass bands (though I harbour a secret pleasure at the irreverence of the Pink Panther at 9 am on the sabbath), and vocals ("Oh Ceh-neh-deh!"). There should be a fine for amplifying any singer who cannot. Hit. That. High. Note. On. Key. I had been out at Parc de la Riviere (I will find that grave accent on the keyboard yet) the previous Sunday and spent 7 hours in a kayak (probably qualifying as one of my 5 longest paddles), so I decided I would head for the ferry.

Leg one of the Great Trek was by Bixi down to the Old Port, which I found busy for a Sunday forenoon, having forgotten the tall ships had sailed into Montréal on Thursday. Four were still in dock, and I paused to take a photo and then carried on west along the promenade. The next nautical attraction was not one to pass with a mere snapshot: frigate HMCS Montréal moored with pennants flying and gangplank down. I found a dock for the Bixi and trotted aboard for a good peer at the ship and all its gear (at least the gear they were willing to show off). Since kayaking leaves one very aware of stability, I am still baffled as to how they launch their Sea-Sparrow missiles without, well, turning over. The angle of the harpoon anti-ship missiles made sense, in that when the rig is in launch position the thrust must be towards the middle of the ship, but the Sea-Sparrows are housed laterally and appear to launch vertically. Must read up.

Around 11:30 I collected my Bixi again (same bike), and set off for Parc Jean Drapeau, which involves describing a big hairpin to come at the Parc via Pont de la Concorde. I had to make Metro Longuiel-Université de Sherbrooke by 41 minutes past the hour to catch the 81 bus - the bus that would probably arrive in time for me to miss the ferry. I continued at my own pace, pausing to take a couple of pictures from the other side of the harbour, and rolled up to the Bixi station beside the Metro at Parc Jean Drapeau at 12:20. Lots of open docks, check. None of which were willing to accept my bike. Finally, after I had tried every dock at least once, one grudgingly gave me the green light, and freed me to plunge down the stairs into the metro station. . . . As the masses began pouring out, a outbound train having come and gone.

So there went another 5 minutes. I rode 1 stop under the river, got off the train and scampered. Well, proceeded on impulse power. Seemed silly to miss the bus now. The bus complex has big windows onto the bus parking area, so you can see your bus on approach, and know when to engage warp engines. I caught the bus, 12:41. Along with a little tot whose mother - who looked about thirteen years old - would never lose her in the long grass. Or, indeed, anywhere short of a rock concert.

The bus hit its mark at the appointed time, and I scurried for the footbridge. From the footbridge, I saw the ferry below at its dock, with a line of people with bikes, loading. Scurry faster. Down stairs, along a few dozen yards, skid down gravel path, and arrive to find that they were full and had to come back for myself and another couple. Which they promised to do. So we hung out on the docks, bobbing as the speedboats tore past, and 10 minutes later, back came the ferry. We'd loaded and cast off when a young family, complete with tot (silent tot) in trailer bike, pulled up, and our captain looped back to collect them. With that and a couple more strays, we had a full cargo of people and bikes.

It's a quick trip, just across the narrow strip of the St Laurent between Îles de Boucherville and Boucherville. We offloaded adjacent to a boat ramp that was already stacked with boat trailers depositing boats. Once again, I was the only bikeless passenger, and was shortly all alone (but for a few assorted butterflies), tramping around the opening of the highway tunnel (I'm sorry, it is just so wrong to have a 4-lane highway come up from the underworld on an island which is a park). Across Île Charron on the way to the entrance of the park, and down the south side of Île Sainte-Marguerite. I estimated it would take me close to an hour, and it did, though I was not hurrying. Temperature was probably close to 20C, but the air was so clear that the sun had a Calgary feel to it, hot. There was a constant silver noise of cicadas.

I reached the location d'embarcations about 1:40, and paused for a quick lunch before getting to the point of the day. No queue, no crowd on the beach, quite a contrast to my first trip. Red Kayak, Ookpik, with a rudder I never did get to cooperate with me, fixed unfeathered paddle, which felt too short until I was in the reeds. I calculated I had about 2 hours before I would have to make tracks for the dock, because if I missed the 1730 ferry my options would be (a) hitch a lift, (b) call for a taxi, or (c) check into the hotel on the island until next Saturday. I had no desire to fight with criss-crossing wakes, even if there was no wind to speak of, so I turned left/north/up La Grande Riviere and, well, the pictures speak for themselves. Blue sky, round little decorative clouds, and water like glass. I threaded through the reeds for most of the way along the north leg in Chenal le Courant before I hit my turnaround time. There were a few close encounters with fellow paddlers and canoeists in the narrow channels. Canadian politeness seemed to make us compete as to who could move furthest out of the way, leaving 2 boats discretely trying to extricate themselves. Two herons, on the wing, and what I suspect was a kingfisher, with a striking white stripe on the neck. In the photos, the water looks faintly marbled from the weeds, visible through the clear water. An abundance of tiny fish in the shallow waters of Grande Riviere, and some larger ones in the deeper open areas of Chenal le Courant.

Back to the rental, park boat, deliver gear, collect ID, take a couple more photos, knowing I would probably not make another trip before the ferry stopped running after Thanksgiving weekend. Paths were busier on the way back, but still not nearly as busy as they were in July. Arrived at ferry dock about 5 pm, thinking I might be lucky, and they might be shuttling passengers at need, but there was no sign of the ferry. I sat and and watched the antics at the adjacent boat ramp, with boats ringed around the ramp and cars and trucks with trailers queued back along the road waiting to pick up or offload. I'd thought the ferry might be full, which was the other impetus for getting back early, but when we left, we had about eight aboard, including a flushed couple of cyclists who had done a very fast final km. By the time I reached the bus stop in the shadow of the bridge, I was looking at a 50 min wait.

I started walking, along Boulevard Marie-Victorin, with road and humming highway between me and the water, and standard suburbia on the other side. My knees had been wingeing ever since I got out of the kayak, and they stepped up their complaints as the road opened out before me, though it was the low sun in my eyes that eventually made me decide just to stake my spot in a shaded bus shelter, and wait. I detoured via a Macs for a bottle of gatorade and a chocolate bar. Call it rehydration and replenishing glycogen stores, ok? And settled down to read "Sheepfarmer's Daughter" (Elizabeth Moon) from the Baen Free Library on my iPod touch until the bus came.

Bus to Metro Longuiel-Université de Sherbrooke, Yellow line to Berri-UQUAM, Orange to Metro Sherbrooke, and La Popessa spaghetti house for fettucini a l'Atlantique, which seemed appropriate. So in summary, I kayaked for 2 hours. Biked for probably 2 hours. Walked for 2.5 hours (not counting the time spent aboard HMCS Montréal). Rode various forms of public transit for another hour or so. Definitely did not fulfil Alison's optimum of paddling time > travel time. But I was lucky on the way out, and psychologically prepared for the return, the sky was blue, there was no wind, and the water was like glass . . . [Edited September 22 to add some more photos]