Going Paddleabout July 2014 Part 2

kayakwriter

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July 21th, 2014
The sound of rain on the roof had me scuttling out of the tent at 5:45 to rescue my drysuit and long johns from the no-longer drying area. Then it was back to bed 'til about 9. I took advantage of a brief lull in the rain to select a suitable centre pole for my tarp from the driftwood offerings on the beach, and used my kayak mast to hold one edge high as an entrance.
wild peas at Wolf Beach resized.jpg

Wolf Beach tarp resized.jpg


No wolves appeared during the day, but in late afternoon, I watched an eagle plunge to snatch up a salmon thrashing at the water's surface. He'd just landed on the rocks to dine when a launch from one of the fishing lodges came peeling 'round the cape. Seemed they'd hooked that fish first. Whether it was an honest desire not to molest wildlife or the sight of me clicking away with my telephoto lens, they let the bird retain his ill-eagle catch.
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July 22th, 2014
Up before the alarm at 4:45. After hot cereal and dried fruit, I used driftwood logs as skids to launch into smooth seas with drifting showers. Since it was calm, I wove through the islands of Choked Passage. Amazing geology, with some strata tilted a full 45 degrees. Stunning to think of the titanic forces at work to move those untold millions of tons of rock.
islet resized.jpg


Back in the channel, I stopped to chat with some of the young staff at Hakia Lodge. I had a nice run back up the east side of Hecate Island, with the current on my side. However, I did get dishpan hands from the now-constant rain.
flotsam resized.jpg

With high tide the same height as three nights before, I knew I was safe setting up my tent on the platform I'd cleared at Goldstream Harbour. A nice woman from the yacht anchored just offshore was kind enough to ask if there was anything I needed, but my supplies were holding up fine.

She, her husband and their German Shepherd left shortly afterwards in their dingy/skiff for a spot of fishing. Twenty minutes later, they came roaring back in. I'd assumed that meant rapid fishing success, but she advised it was because there were terrible dark clouds bearing down on us (out of sight to me because of the harbour hills). From her description, I expected everything this side of frogs and locusts, so I battened down all the hatches, tightened the tarp lines, generally rigged for storm running and waited. And waited. And waited. Nary a rustle.

I supped on a huge bowl of onion soup and toasted cheese sandwiches. Then, with a potentially "big hop" tomorrow, I hit the sack early.

July 23rd, 2014
I was up at 5 and launched painlessly at 7:30 into a mix of sun and cloud.
sun and cloud resized.jpg


Not long after traversing Hakia Passage, I watched a lone eagle and a full flock of seagulls swoop in to feed on a herring ball. And shortly after that, I made an urgent landing - last night's onion soup was flushing out the bilges with alarming effectiveness.

By the time I hit the east side of Hunter, I was bucking both wind and current, reducing my speed to 2 knots or less. Still, the sun now shone steadily, and crew morale remained high.

I got to Kiltik Cove, a possible campsite, about 12:30. It would have made for a short paddling day, but an opportunity to break a long hop into two easier leaps. However, there was a lodge there, and the idea of camping in what was emotionally, if not legally, someone's front yard did not appeal.

Approaching the southern DeCosmos campsite, I spotted an Auk and shortly after heard the most incredible shrieking and wailing echoing through the trees. I'm guessing it was some sort of avian food fight or territorial dispute; it certainly gave the shoreline a distinctly Jurassic jungle air.

Both the southern and northern DeComos sites offered only brutal landings and dubious safety from high tides, so I committed to the full run to Serpent Point. By this time, I was quite tired and a bit too warm in my drysuit. But I was also increasingly in the shade of Hunter Island's high hills. And brief favourable breezes allowed me to sail or paddle sail for a few minutes here and there. They proved to be the advance guards for a late afternoon inflow; by the time I reached Carpenter Point, the wind was strong and steady enough that I was able to put up both sails and enjoy a free ride for almost 4 nautical miles. The occasional overtaking wave that pooped on my rear deck suggested it was probably a good thing the wind hadn't come up earlier - it might have been rather too exciting if the seas had had all afternoon and the full fetch of Fisher Channel to build.
towards Serpent Point levelled and resized.jpg



The very welcome break recharged me for clawing into the headwind funneling through Lama Passage between Hunter and Denny Islands. I finally landed at Serpent Point about 20:00 hours, after twelve and a half hours at sea and about 25 nautical miles of travel.

Fatigue had destroyed my appetite, but I ate as much of a freeze dried dinner as I could manage, so I'd have fuel to prevent shivers in the night.

July 24th, 2014
Serpent Point camp resized.jpg


After yesterday's epic paddle, I slept 'til nine, then began the slow, deliberate ritual of preparing brunch, now seasoned by a sharp, enjoyable hunger. Later, I inspected the "real" upland campsite on the west side of the little bay mentioned in TWC, but it's become lumpy and overgrown since JK's visit, so I opted to leave my tent at the head of the beach, albeit jammed between a pair of logs. I rewatered from the small creek, showered, and then updated the journal I'd been too tired to complete last night. I also fired up my phone on the off chance I'd get a signal from Bella Bella or Shearwater and be able to make a reassuring call to home, but no luck.
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July 25th, 2014
Unusually for me in a tent, I slept very poorly - hardly at all, in fact. I'd been careful not to nap during the day, but a lack of ventilation made the tent stuffy (logs on either side of it prevented me from leaving the doors open in the intermittent rain) and a host of bugs (I'd foolishly opened one netting door without extinguishing my headlamp*) meant I was tossing and turning through most of the night. At 5:15, I gave it up, and began the reverse Russian-doll packing process, putting smaller things into bigger things, and those into even bigger things, and so on.

*Ironically, I`d just been reading John K`s section in The Wild Coast about not doing just this. And about the brutality of launching over long, muddy, clam covered beaches, precisely what I had to do that morning. I`m really glad there was no section on avoiding tsunamis in his book.

The run up the east side of Denny Island was cloudy, cool and calm, with a favourable current, perfect for paddling with a present-in-the-moment appreciation of the beauty around me. We (or at least I) always aspire to travel in this rarified, thinking-higher-thoughts kind of way, but we (or at least I) too often get distracted from it by the quotidian demands of weather, navigation and logistics. This morning, however, I was in the zone. The mountains on King Island loomed lovely atop the mist. The waterfalls on my side of the channel sang beautiful songs. And my imagination flew unfettered, running a time-lapse video in which I could see each of the tangled trees above me each growing at frantic speed, shouldering its neighbours over the cliff edges and into the waiting sea, and in turn falling victim to younger rivals, a desperate mêlée that only our fleeting human timescale fools us into mistaking for a tranquil forest.
gnarly wood resized.jpg

looking back down Fisher Channel resized.jpg


By the time I made my dog-leg turn towards Gunboat Passage, the sun was steadily out. At my rest stop, the warmth tempted me to peel off my wetsuit, but I opted to keep it on. That turned out to be wise.
beach dragon resized.jpg

(Tell me that's not a beach dragon)

Approaching the tight gap formed by Maria Island, I was overtaken by a powerboat enroute to Shearwater or Bella Bella. A white plume hung in its wake, and I was piously tut-tutting about exhaust fumes when a loud huff clued me in that I was actually looking at a whale spout. I hung about to watch the humpback blow steam once more. Then, with rainclouds cascading down the hills on the southeast side of Hampden Bay, I quickly pulled on my cag. Not for the first time, I was glad to have a waterproof layer I can don or doff at sea. It slipped on easily. Especially after I turned it the right way round.

The narrowest section of Gunboat Passage was lovely, with a swift, favourable current that made it feel like running down a river. I whipped happily past the mid-channel buoys, each pointed like a weathervane downstream. After the passage widened and slowed, I took the opportunity to snack while still making progress.

As I drew parallel to Manson Point, I could see a solid grey wall sweeping toward me from the west - no more of the gently drifting showers I`d been dealing with. As the rain swallowed me, visibility was quickly reduced. Fortunately, I had my destination in my GPS. And I knew from a visit four years earlier that the camp on Rainbow Island was flat, roomy and securely above any tide. So I plodded through the heavy torrents with a light heart. And glad to have left my wetsuit on. In just swim shorts, I`d have been dangerously cold.
P7250436 down Gunboat Passage levelled and resized.jpg


I made landfall on Rainbow about 16:30 hours. As I scouted to find the optimum beaching point that would minimize my portage carries, a pair of humpbacks emerged not a hundred feet offshore. I managed to get my pocket camera out and capture some blurry, shaky footage of their subsequent surfacings.


As I unpacked, I discovered several inches of water in the kayak`s rear compartment. I tried to determine if there was a leak in the bottom by looking for water draining out now that the boat was on land, but the driving rain running down the sides and dripping off the keel made it impossible to detect anything. Eventually, I concluded the water must have flooded in via the ends of the rudder cable hoses, which had been submerged by the steep slope of the landing, and kept underwater for an extended period as I scouted portages and whale watched. (As we shall see in the epilogue, this turned out not to be true. I`m really glad the rear compartment was almost entirely filled with a Futa Stowfloat tapered drybag, retangular waterproof duffle and a Watershed Duffle. These waterproof bags provided secondary floatation in the event of hull failure, just as I`d always planned. And kept my clothes and down sleeping bag from a disastrous soaking. Likewise, as planned.)

Despite being cold and tired, I took the time to set up camp carefully, rigging the tarp first, and pitching the tent beneath it to reduce both interior condensation and the noise of rain on the roof. Naturally, all these elaborate preparations ensured that about twenty minutes after I finished, the rain stopped. So it was time well spent.
the camp on Rainbow Island levelled, light adjusted resized.jpg


Supper was tangy sweet-and-sour baked beans accompanied by my last two slices of flat bread, lavishly buttered. Indescribably delicious.

Having not slept much for 36 hours and paddled a long, honest day, I drifted off quickly and slumbered blissfully for a full 12 hours, dreaming of whales sounding into bottomless green depths.

July 26th, 2014

With the ferry not leaving `til late in the day, I was able to eat and pack leisurely, launching just before noon. I paddled the couple of hours to McLoughlin Bay and timed my landing for high tide around 14:00 hours.
Bella Bella longhouse resized.jpg

Shortly after I`d settled into the waiting room, I was greeted by Gerald, my site mate from Triquet Island. We passed a companionable ferry voyage back to Port Hardy, comparing notes on paddling adventures and our mutual love of companion dogs.

Epilogue
Subsequent inspection of my kayak at home revealed that a cut in the rubberized keel strip I`d had applied years ago had held water almost constantly against the keel, decaying the very matrix of the fibre. The leak had been slow enough not to be detectable on my two hour sprint to McLoughlin Bay, though it had clearly let the rear compartment flood on the previous full day on the water. Since that keel strip had also protected the boat against years of solo drags up and down rocky beaches, I`d say it was at least a wash in terms of its effect on the boat`s life, and more likely a net gain.

But in combination with all the other repairs I`d made to the boat over the years, it was a sign that she was no longer safe for long voyages. No regrets: I`d used this kayak roughly through 13 years of hard travel and major mods, so I got my money`s worth and more. I was loathe to sell or even donate the boat to unknown parties, not wanting the legal or moral responsibility if anything went wrong despite my warnings she needed major work to be seaworthy. Some WCPers will also remember my posting looking for an eco-friendly way to dispose of it. The consensus was there wasn`t any such way for composite boats.

And so on a late fall evening, I found myself stripping the fittings off the boat in preparation for cutting it up. It was a emotional experience. This kayak wasn`t one of those unique handmade beauties of wood or skin on frame. It was a mass produced object of fabric and epoxy. But we`d been through so much together. She`d borne me safely across miles of stormy waters, given me access to remote places I`d never otherwise have been, and sailed me through countless summer afternoons on English Bay.

The next morning, I happened to be chatting to a co-worker of mine, a long time sailor and sometime kayaker. His eyes lit up at the mention of my old boat; his wife has her own kayak and he`d been looking for an inexpensive way to get one of his own. I brought her in the next morning and he took her to her new home on Bowen Island. He is one of the few people I would trust to take my old craft. He understood what he was getting, and the work required to make her seaworthy once more. He has the skills and the patience to put far more labour into her than it would make sense to pay anyone for, purely as a past-time and for the pleasure of restoration.

So he got a new-to-him boat out of the deal. I got some bucks and a bottle of a most excellent single malt of a make that is new to me. And a grand final adventure with my beloved boat. And best of all, the knowledge that she, like the Mary Ellen Carter, will rise again.

 
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Astoriadave

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Terrific narrative, Philip. I think Tarp Man must anoint you a Commander of the Band of Tarpspreaders. Those are artful tarp pitches, airy and imaginative.
 

kayakwriter

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Astoriadave said:
Terrific narrative, Philip. I think Tarp Man must anoint you a Commander of the Band of Tarpspreaders. Those are artful tarp pitches, airy and imaginative.
Thanks Dave. I'm no Tsunami Ranger or expeditioneer, but if there are two things I take pride in about my sea kayaking, they're the sailing and my tarp rigging. A well rigged tarp really makes a difference on wetcoast trips.

Does your increased activity on the board hold out the hope you might be up for joining us at a WCP get-together sometime? It'd be really great to see you in person again.
 

kayakwriter

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Astoriadave said:
Love to be there, but not possible. You guys will have a great time and can post lots of photos.
Sorry to hear that (and hope I wasn't being an insensitive jerk to ask). Meanwhile, we're happy to have you sharing your expertise and voyaging with us vicariously.
 

AM

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Great report and photos, Philip! Just the thing for a grey winter's day. I must say, you eat well on your solo jaunts!

Cheers,
Andrew
 

kayakwriter

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AM said:
Great report and photos, Philip! Just the thing for a grey winter's day. I must say, you eat well on your solo jaunts!
Cheers, Andrew
Thanks Andrew. Yeah, I find I can cope with almost anything during the day as long as I know I'll be able to sleep warm and dry and eat decently. I carry a mix of freeze-dried dinners (great for those days you wouldn't bother to eat if it involved anything more complicated than boiling water), supermarket dry foods, and, now that I've got a decent dehydrator, home-dried entrees.
 

alexsidles

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Philip, I too always seem to struggle with the timing of the tarp. When it's raining, it takes me so long to set up the tarp properly that the rain always seems to stop before I'm done. When it's sunny, I can't find the motivation to bother setting up the tarp, and then of course the rain rolls in.

Great stories from my favorite part of the BC coast.

Alex
 

Astoriadave

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Philip's tarp is more elaborate than mine. 10 by 10 ft, grommets along the edges, with reinforcement at the corners and in the center. The latter for use when a center pole is needed. I use quarter inch lines, as those puny tent guys are nasty to work with, especially when your hands are cold. Lay the tarp where you want it, loosely rough tie the four corners to something, slide a center pole into position, and fine tune the four lines for position and tension. Then, while you at least have a spot to toss gear as the boats get unloaded, add lines as needed to open up or close down the edges so the wind does not carry rain underneath. If you need head room, add corner poles on the downwind side. 12 x 12 is better for four, but more work to pitch.

Our rule is get the boats above the tide, set the tarp, and THEN unload the boats. Tents get pitched later, maybe even after dinner. When leaving, tarp is taken down last, with the dry area under the tarp used for staging gear as it is extracted from tents, etc. We use the tents for sleeping, and on layover days, for reading, etc.

Never found the fancy tarps to be an advantage. Their aerodynamic layout ensures that rain will sweep under the upwind edge and drench you. The fastidious amongst my companions like a small tarp over their tent entries for a dry veranda effect. Kinda yuppie, if you ask me. We pack tents wet, separating fly from the main tent. The wet fly ensures that everyone understands that kayaking is a wet sport.
 

sludge

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What Dave said. Except for centre pole. I dislike centre poles, and always seek raise/hold the tarp centre point high with rope over a tree bough above.
 

Astoriadave

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sludge said:
What Dave said. Except for centre pole. I dislike centre poles, and always seek raise/hold the tarp centre point high with rope over a tree bough above.
Ditto on dislike of center poles, unfortunately a necessary evil when a skyhook is not available. Forgot to mention my 10 x 10 tarp has a reinforced loop, top, center, for skyhooking when a bough is present.

Larger groups with larger tarps have the manpower to lash up A style supports at either end of the long dimension of the tarp, clearing the center of a pole. Only works when there is some serious driftwood available, and a deft, quick crew for a quick pitch.
 

Dan_Millsip

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I've seen a few of Philip's tarp setups and have been duly impressed. He's got the tarpology thing down pat.

Excellent read as always and fabulous photos. Thanks, Philip.
 

Nick Heath

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Excellent information and images in both reports! Thank you. Loved your writing style too!
2 questions - curious about the exact layout of the Serpent Point site and where you decided to camp.
It would be super if you would share your GPS track with me/us!
Second question is would you be willing to share some site and landing beach photos (not views etc) with us at BC Marine Trails Network Assn?
Eventually, these will be available to view on the web, so fellow paddlers can better plan safe trips and know what to expect. For an example, pl go to the BCMTNA map at
www.bcmarinetrails.org and check a site such as Redsands Beach (S of Smith Sd). Gathering usable photos is a worthwhile winter task for me and allows me to stay warm anddry but my computer..!
Cheers
Nick (my coordinates: groundcheck at bcmarinetrails dot org
 

kayakwriter

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Hi all. Bumping this posting too as I've fixed the missing photos and videos. As far as I know, this is all of my trip reports fixed now, but if you stumble across any of my other postings where the photos are missing or blurred by Photobucket, please let me know.
 

cougarmeat

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Kayakwriter - thank you for sharing your inspiring adventures. I see the posts are very old so you might have updated your gear by now. If not, here are some thoughts … on being cold in the hammock: When on the ground, your sleeping pad offers insulation against the conduction heat loss from the ground. In a hammock, your heat loss is by convection - air current under the hammock. Your sleeping bag won’t help much with that as your body weight compresses it. So though you have loft on top, under you is just a few layers of nylon. This is often solved by using a pad in the hammock or an underquilt. Many “camping” hammocks are available in “double layer” meaning they have a sleeve for the pad - minimizing its shifting around. But nothing beats the comfort of an underquilt. It’s like half a sleeping bag that is suspended with bungee cord under your hammock. As this is a kayak forum, not a hammock forum, I’ll spare additional detail but PM me if you want more info.

Now a hammock doesn’t work well without trees and it is not unusual to only have a sand/shell beach. I also carry a Plan-B tent. But this summer I may be able to invest in a portable stand called a Tensa4. It’s four collapsible poles arranged in a diamond shape with the hammock suspended between the two longer diamond vertexes. It has a much smaller footprint than a tent and keeps you - and anything you clip on a ridge line - out of the water. For the tarp, I carry a few REI collapsible poles. They are light and store easily along the interior keel area. Because my paddle is my “go forward” device, I don’t like to use it for anything but that. So I use one or two collapsible poles to create an awning on one side of the tarp.

I understand that tide issue - on my first real “ocean trip” from Tofino the Vargas Island, we set up the tent (I didn’t know about hammocks back then) way up on the beach. But the tide kept coming, and coming, and coming - stopping only a few feet from the opening. We were already backed up against the foliage. Later the next day, a guided group stopped for lunch and the guide told us it that because of a storm (out at sea), it was the highest tide recorded all year.

In the opposite direction, once I stopped at John’s Island (San Juans, WA) to await slack current in Speiden Channel. I was able to paddle near shore and got out for lunch and about an hour’s wait. I had a line on the boat and as the tide went out, I push the boat out so it was still floating on a few inches of water and continued to tie it off on appearing rocks. The tide went out, and out, and out … and out, and out. I must have pushed that kayak out at least six times. I was so grateful I had done that. Had I kept the boat on shore. I would have had to completely empty it, then make many carries across slippery, mucky, sand/rock maybe 30 to 50 yards from shore. Instead, I just had to carry my lunch bag down to the boat, gather up the tether line, and paddle away.

So about that sail - do you still use it? Doesn’t make things too busy on deck? I have a circular one I bought long ago and only tired it once, in a lake. The wind keep shifting - to the humor of my paddling partners - seemingly 180 degrees. Finally, for a brief couple of seconds, I had the sail up and the wind at my back.A wake formed at the bow. I could see, if the wind was right, that the sail had promise. But that “wind was right” seemed like a very narrow window.
 
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kayakwriter

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Kayakwriter - thank you for sharing your inspiring adventures. I see the posts are very old so you might have updated your gear by now. If not, here are some thoughts … on being cold in the hammock: When on the ground, your sleeping pad offers insulation against the conduction heat loss from the ground. In a hammock, your heat loss is by convection - air current under the hammock. Your sleeping bag won’t help much with that as your body weight compresses it. So though you have loft on top, under you is just a few layers of nylon. This is often solved by using a pad in the hammock or an underquilt. Many “camping” hammocks are available in “double layer” meaning they have a sleeve for the pad - minimizing its shifting around. But nothing beats the comfort of an underquilt. It’s like half a sleeping bag that is suspended with bungee cord under your hammock. As this is a kayak forum, not a hammock forum, I’ll spare additional detail but PM me if you want more info.
Hi Cougarmeat. Thanks for the kind words. I think there might have been some confusion - earlier on that particular day, I'd been dozing in my hammock taking a nap, but that night I was sleeping in my tent, on an insulated pad. On the few occasions I have slept in the hammock overnight, I have put my insulated pad under me, for all the reasons you mention.

I understand that tide issue - on my first real “ocean trip” from Tofino the Vargas Island, we set up the tent (I didn’t know about hammocks back then) way up on the beach. But the tide kept coming, and coming, and coming - stopping only a few feet from the opening. We were already backed up against the foliage. Later the next day, a guided group stopped for lunch and the guide told us it that because of a storm (out at sea), it was the highest tide recorded all year.
In the opposite direction, once I stopped at John’s Island (San Juans, WA) to await slack current in Speiden Channel. I was able to paddle near shore and got out for lunch and about an hour’s wait. I had a line on the boat and as the tide went out, I push the boat out so it was still floating on a few inches of water and continued to tie it off on appearing rocks. The tide went out, and out, and out … and out, and out. I must have pushed that kayak out at least six times. I was so grateful I had done that. Had I kept the boat on shore. I would have had to completely empty it, then make many carries across slippery, mucky, sand/rock maybe 30 to 50 yards from shore. Instead, I just had to carry my lunch bag down to the boat, gather up the tether line, and paddle away.
Yup, when I'm stopped for lunch, I do the same thing - migrate the boat up or down the beach as needed. But it's not a solution at an overnight camp, unless you want get up every hour or so, which I don't!

So about that sail - do you still use it? Doesn’t make things too busy on deck? I have a circular one I bought long ago and only tired it once, in a lake. The wind keep shifting - to the humor of my paddling partners - seemingly 180 degrees. Finally, for a brief couple of seconds, I had the sail up and the wind at my back.A wake formed at the bow. I could see, if the wind was right, that the sail had promise. But that “wind was right” seemed like a very narrow window.
I don't have that particular boat any more with the Pacific Action sail. I have two other kayaks, which are kind of the two opposite extremes when it comes to sailing:

One is a Seaward Tyee, which is set up with a Falcon Sail (and also has a mount near the cockpit for adding Spirit Sail for use on beam reaches in low airs.) With the rudder and the Falcon sail I can sail roughly 65 degrees off the wind on either side of straight downwind. By paddle-sailing, I can actually make assisted progress across and even a bit upwind, which means the odds that any wind that comes up will be in my favour are greatly increased. But, yes, that does create a lot of clutter on the front deck.
https://philiptorrens.com/2015/12/04/a-review-of-the-falcon-kayak-sail-part-2-exhilaration/

At the other extreme, I have my Valley Etain. The only sail I have for that is a Windpaddle. So because the Windpaddle is pretty much a downwind spinnaker, and the Etain has a skeg rather than a rudder, any sailing I do with it is downwind or at most a few degrees offwind. On the plus side, I can stow the entire folded sail under the sprayskirt (or even in the bow or stern hatch if I'm on land) leaving both decks completely uncluttered and access to my front-deck mounted spare paddle unimpeded.
P9290265.JPG

(This is me rafted up with my paddling buddy in another skeg boat, getting a free ride back to Jericho Sailing Association after an outing to Stanley Park.)
 

cougarmeat

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Yes - that’s the one I have too. Folds up neatly. But my eyebrow was raised in some of their promo videos as they showed people with their GPS’s set to display speed. Showing 6 knots was well and good until, in the background, you could see a paddler passing the guy with the GPS. Now I don’t know anyone who can paddle at 6 knots, let alone someone who can paddle (at a leisurely pace) past someone churning away at 6 knots. So you think just maybe the current itself was moving right along :)

But those few seconds on the lake, when the WindPaddle could do it’s spinnaker thing, was glorious.

I’ve read that the man-made Ross Lake in WA has a pretty constant south wind in the afternoons. I figured, if I every visited that lake (have to time it right - they drain it in the Fall), I’d start from the north with early morning starts and paddle south till it got blowy. I’d pretty much try to go the 20 mile length in a three of easy days. Maybe four if the weather and camps were nice. Then use that WindPaddle and “jet-ski” back to the northern launch point using the afternoon winds.
 
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