My backpack trip was actually a lot juicier than it sounds from what I’ve written.
O lord, what to do with all this “content?”
Getting across the water was a big deal for me. Been plotting (and blabbing to all who would listen) for years, I’m gonna stash a surfboard and paddle my pack across…blah blah…
My friend Billy had given me one of those (9′) blue soft surfboards in a dumpster, so the morning before I left, I drove to the beach and, using my little 2-wheeled surf trailer, towed it 2-1/2 miles along the sand to the end of the spit, where I hid it in the sword grass.
In one of my oh so many cases of the reality being different from the vision, it was hairy out there that afternoon. Then wind was 30-35 mph, would be head-on in crossing the channel. There was a 6′ high tide, so the channel was maxxed out in width. The wind as whipping trails of sand on the dunes. The ocean was looking harsh. By 6PM, the wind hadn’t lessened. I made a mature decision. I’d be low in the water, wind slowing my progress AND getting pack wet. Plus if I did make it across, I’d be freezing, didn’t have a towel, nightfall coming. Houston, we have a problem.
That night, too windy to use stove, had Rykrisp and hard goat cheese for dinner, and spent a hideous night as water beaded up on my down sleeping bag. Night was clear and I tried to tell time by Taurus moving (sic) across the ecliptic.
Still windy the next morning and drat, had to be mature again. Too cold, too risky. Buried board in sand, marked spot with driftwood, walked barefoot 2-1/2 miles back in wind to table near parking lot to eat and dry out, ended up talking to young nomad, living in his RV, just back from Burning Man, and like just about every young person I meet nowadays, he was big on tiny homes.
I reset my goal to circumambulating the estero to get out to the lighthouse.