I got a call from a friend asking if I wanted to paddle out to Fire Island for a weekend. One of the members from our club had obtained from whatever agency involved a permit for a primitive camping area on the island. We went on a weekend in mid October. Arrangements had been made to put in at a small local marina. For the bargain price of five dollars we got to launch and keep our cars over night in secure storage. Seven of us had elected to spend the night but there were at least another dozen boats that showed up that morning because many people had decided to make a day trip out of it since a beautiful weekend had been forecast.

Saturday dawned bright and clear. The marina operators were glad to have our business because most of the boats had been hauled already for the season and we filled their small coffee shop that morning. It had been decided beforehand that we were all going to have breakfast there before beginning the four to five mile crossing of Great South Bay.

We launched at what had to be a record for us at 1000 hours. It was one of those Indian summer type days. There was bright sunshine, a barely perceptible breeze and a water temp of about sixty degrees. Since most of the pleasure boats were off the water for the season it felt like we had the entire bay to ourselves. Other then the occasional fishing boat there wasn’t any other craft seen. It was one of those rare paddling days that had a magical feel to it. As if we were gliding over the water instead of moving through it. I felt as if I had just accelerated to cruising speed when my bow was making a landfall on the island.

We hauled our boats into the reeds well above the high tide mark. Roy, our fearless leader for the weekend led the way as we bushwhacked a trail through the marsh grass to the sunken forest that was going to be our camp for the night. It was great having all the extra hands along because the day-trippers helped to carry our gear to the campsite. I alone had a ton of it. I was paddling my trusty double Folbot solo that weekend. On the trips that I used to do that, and there were a lot of them, I would load down the front seat with coolers and such. Also I always seemed to have the extra room needed for that last pack that just could not be squeezed into the hatch opening of someone else’s boat. “Inuitsea, would you mind carrying this for me?” Someone would ask. “No, I don’t mind at all, this boat handles better with the extra weight aboard.” Would be my standard dumb rejoinder.

After pitching our tents we trekked back to the beach to see off our friends who were making the return paddle. We then went back to camp for lunch. After lunch we hiked over the dunes to the ocean side of the island. It was heaven; there wasn’t another soul on the beach for as far as the eye could see. A short time later we saw what appeared to be a Jeep driving down the beach. It was one of the Park Rangers. He called us down from our perch on the top of the dunes and told us that since we had that whole portion of the island to ourselves we were allowed to do just about anything we damn well pleased except for what we were doing now. He informed us that we were allowed to walk over the top of the dunes but could not sit on the top of them. We hastily pulled all of our paraphernalia down to the beach while profusely apologizing. The rest of the afternoon was just spent lazing on the beach. Somehow my friend Jane talked me into going for a swim. I am one who abhors the cold. I told her she had to be out of her mind if she thought that I was going swimming in the Atlantic at that time of year. “Come on, you have a wetsuit on, make believe you just got dumped out of your boat. It will be good practice for you.” I was still wearing my farmer john and reluctantly at first entered the water. It didn’t take all that long before I was swimming beside her and loving every minute of it.

The afternoon went by too quickly. We went back to camp and started to prepare dinner. It seemed that everyone had bought enough food with him or her to feed everybody. We had a huge seven-course dinner with each of us supplying a course. This was the first time I had seen a Outback Oven© in action. One couple had bought one along and they made pizza followed by brownies with it. I made a note to purchase one for myself since I already had the stove, which is used, as the heat source for one. Having the room for a couple of coolers in my boat I was the hit of the evening because not only was I able to supply shrimp in a garlic sauce for an appetizer but I had beer and wine on ice. Two of the girls volunteered to do the dishes. The rest of the evening was spent recounting tales of paddle trips gone by while sitting around the campfire.

I woke up Sunday to the sound of the wind trying to tear down my tent. The campsite looked like a disaster area because any gear that had been left outside had been blown all over the place. The forecast the night before had called for a freshening breeze. This felt more like a hurricane. I walked down by the beach to check on the boats and couldn’t find them. All of the marsh reeds had sprung back up and the boats were so well hidden I walked past them three times before spotting them. I made my way to the beach and thought uh-oh we got a problem here. I looked out on what yesterday had been the glass smooth waters of the bay and all I could see were whitecaps. The waves were running at about three to four feet. I returned to camp to tell the others the good news. Everyone took the news in stride because we were so used to having our trips end up in a calamity. I proceeded to get breakfast together and again was able to impress my campmates because I produced fresh blue berry pancakes with sausage and even had remembered to bring the orange juice to complement the coffee, tea and hot chocolate. Again I was reminded how great it was having a large boat and being able to pack all the extra gear and food. I would soon be cursing myself for this same reason.

After breaking camp we started to haul our gear down to the boats. We surely missed the extra hands we had with us the day before. We entered our boats and started to make the crossing. I didn’t get ten feet before my bow was violently pushed downwind. I thought no problem; I’ll just drop the rudder. Even with the rudder turned hard over it was a struggle to maintain a straight course. The other boats weren’t fairing too much better. We were all getting blown down wind. After maybe a quarter of a mile our leader for this expedition decided we would go with plan “B”. He said we would paddle downwind towards the end of the island, a distance of about five miles. There was a small park area there with a pay phone that he would use to call a car service to take us back to our cars.

Once we turned downwind the paddle became a pleasant one again. We were able to just let the wind blow us along and we made good time getting to the end of the island. We went ashore at what had one time been a parking area. Now it wasn’t much of anything. It had been destroyed in a previous storm. Roy kept walking around in circles muttering, “It was here, I swear it, the phone was right here.” We just shook our heads in disbelief. Now we had no choice but to make the crossing of the wind whipped bay waters. We decided to try to pair up in case someone went over but this was next to impossible. I prayed we would not have to do a rescue in those waters. We just put our heads down and went for it. I now wished that I too had a sleek fiberglass or plastic boat like the others. I felt like I was paddling a barge. We were ferrying across the bay but we did not try to go upwind back to where our cars were. As long as we made it across in one piece we would be happy where ever we landed. I couldn’t believe the size of some of the waves. On more than one occasion a wave hit me in the side of the head. Slowly but surely we were making progress. At last I saw a small beach next to a marina and that’s where I decided to make my landfall. Somehow the barge and me were leading the pack. I made it to the beach and had a reception committee of one. A local police officer was sitting in his car shaking his head. “What are you people nuts? It’s blowing a good thirty to thirty five knots out there.” Well we were camping on the island and we all have to be home for work tomorrow I replied. “Our switchboard lit up like a Christmas tree with all the people on shore calling in about you.” While our conversation was taking place the other boats had landed safely on the beach. Our fearless leader came up to join in the conversation. “Hey Roy, he just told me the winds were thirty to thirty five knots out there.” “Really, that much huh?” Was his retort. The local cop was flabbergasted at our calm demeanor about this. “I have a thirty foot sloop that I keep here in the marina and I wouldn’t think of going out on a day like today.” He just shook his head and rolled his eyes when Roy told him we do this kind of stuff all the time. By this time the others had all made it up to our little party. Everyone was laughing about how hard a struggle it was to make it across. Then Roy asked the cop for the number for a car service. He explained how our cars were parked three towns away. “What are you kidding? If I drove for a car service I wouldn’t want to drive you anywhere looking like that!” Roy, like the rest of us, was covered in salt spray. His hair was so mangled it looked like he would never be able to get a comb through it again. “I’ll drive you back to your car,” he told Roy. “You can then come back for the others.” He took a blanket out of his trunk for Roy to sit on.

Thus in the most ancient traditions of the sea a fellow mariner helped us out instead of leaving us stranded on a beach.