Shenandoah Paddle

George and I just returned from three days of paddling two of the most scenic rivers Virginia has to offer.  Mind you, these trips aren’t spontaneous.  Anyone who is paddle savvy, knows that weeks of planning and organizing make the trip more fun.  Emails begin flying after folks check their calendars and sign on.  Reservations are booked, kayaks, canoes and lifejackets are secured. And most importantly, picnic menus are discussed, decided upon and divided up.

Our paddle companions were Mary Anne and Barry, Heidi and John, Phyllis and Margene and Casey and Walter…a great bunch.  What some of us lacked in experience, we more than made up for in enthusiasm and stamina.  There were no whiners on this trip.  Well, one small navigation error almost resulted in mutiny, but one loyal mate offered words of perseverance and we forged ahead.  (this occurred on the way to the river….in the car!)  But, once on the river there was no mistaking which way to go….just go  with the flow.

Four of us from Elizabeth City joined two from Farmville (Faye and Chuck) and spent Thursday (Aug. 15 – George’s birthday)  kayaking on the James River. Putting in at Scotsville, we traveled 13.6 miles and pulled out 4 ½ hours later at Bremo Bluff.  We enjoyed lots of class 1 rapids and a fantastic lunch prepared by Faye (culinary queen extraordinaire)  Just when one thinks the river has nothing else to offer, Faye spotted a huge creature moving in the water.  Who would ever guess a manatee had found its way into Virginia waters?  We didn’t have this confirmed until our return and read the newspapers.

 By 5 PM we told the Greens goodbye and headed towards Skyline Drive and Big Meadows Lodge where we were to meet the group arriving from Elizabeth City.  Pulling a trailer loaded with six kayaks and sporting another one on top, we talked about the day’s trip and wondered about the one coming up…. the Shenandoah!

What a dream…floating down the stream, kayaking on the Shenandoah.  That pretty much sums up Friday and Saturday as our entourage floated, paddled and navigated that majestic river.  With 8 boats carrying 10 people, we can boast that no-one took a spill.  George and I teamed up in a double kayak and did our best to keep the gunnels above the water line.  My role seated fore was to spot upcoming obstacles and potential danger.  For left-handed George, me shouting “paddle left” or “paddle right” doesn’t get it.  He’s never been able to decipher that basic navigational tool.  We settled on using the clock-face.  “Rock ahead at 1 o’clock” worked like a charm.  The last rapids (Compton’s) was a class 2+ and by late Saturday afternoon we were all ready and prepared to take the dive.  All 8 boats rode it down like professionals and hit the tidal pool with big grins.  The tidal pool, by the way, held 500 college kids in tubes….and an extra 200 tubes sporting coolers.  It was a colorful sight.

The rest is all downriver.  We gathered for cocktails and tales on the Keyes’ patio and watched the sunset.  We laughed about near spills and “out-of water” experiences on rocks.  We shared reflections and the after-glow of a shared adventure.  We’re already talking about our next trip!

Surfing Sixties

A feature article in the morning paper about surf legend Bob Holland led me down memory lane.  Everybody who toted a surfboard on the Outer Banks in the sixties knew the name. Years before he made it into the East Coast Surfing Hall of Fame, he was making a name for himself as an east coast champion.  The kids I hung with were into surfing and were lucky to be a beach local from Memorial Day to Labor Day.  Some of us had family cottages, some stayed with friends and some worked jobs that provided lodging (of sorts).  I swear Pat and Julia spent an entire summer in a camper parked in my family’s driveway.  Where there’s a will, there’s a wave.

I started surfing on a chunky orange board I bought from Nancy Wood Foreman.  When Bob Holland teamed with partner Pete Smith to open Smith & Holland Surf Shop in Virginia Beach, I bought my first real board, a 9.5 ft. Hansen Superlight.  I was stoked!

We lived and breathed surfing and the waves were better then.  Maybe it was the position of the sandbars, maybe it was the wave gods, but we almost always found rideable waves.  You could find our crowd on any given day at dead low tide, somewhere between Hatteras and Corolla searching for the waves. Many mornings we were in the water just after sunrise and ride a few before breakfast. A favorite time was just before twilight when the surf often got glassy.  Our evening surfing slowed a bit after an incident with a shark.  There are no causalities to report, just a little too up close and personal.   Sharks aside, not much else could squelch our dedication and enthusiasm…we ignored jellyfish, sea nettles, sting-rays and bone numbing cold water.  I broke my foot one morning and didn’t feel it until lunch due to the freezing water temperature. 

Those were the golden years of surfing.  West coasters had been testing the waters for decades, but in the mid-sixties the sport took off and ignited the east coast in a hot frenzy.  Fueled by top 40 hits by The Beach Boys and dozens of surfing films, we fell into the scene with complete allegiance.  We followed the weather reports and storm predictions.  We skipped school, drove endless miles up stretches of isolated beaches and waited out the red warning flags flying during gale force winds.  We looked out for each other. 

I recall one incident with sober clarity.  It was at the tail end of a storm when the surf was glassy, but the waves were still huge.  Several of us, including myself, George and Allan (my brother) paddled out at the Nags Head Fishing Pier.  It took a while to get out, past the big swells rolling in one after another, and when we finally stopped paddling and turned to sit on our boards, the beach was a long, very long way away.  We were as far as the end of the pier.  Every wave seemed deadly…too big to take off on.  It grew later and darker.  My mother had put the beach towel on the roof to signal it was time to come it now.  I saw it, we all saw it, but we were scared.  Someone decided we should all take off on the same wave.  So, that’s what we did.  Nobody made any effort to stand up. We all caught that wave and rode it like we were riding a raft. 

Surfing’s still big, but it will never impact an entire generation of teens like it did for us. The sixties spawned a culture that made zinc oxide a symbol of belonging .  It forever changed beach fashion and almost invented the bikini. Surfing symbolized our freedom and gave us the rush we so needed.  It was the perfect time.