Channeling a Pelagic Path

Oil Platform Gilda loomed prominently on my immediate northeastern horizon. Standing tall, it was the last platform I paddled past toward the mainland while kayaking across the Santa Barbara Channel from the southeast end of Santa Cruz Island.

Before reaching the sturdy steel legs of Gilda, I noticed some disturbance on the glassy waters. Perpetual curiosity has always been my remedy while combating the mid-channel mundane, and it wasn’t any different during my 10th channel crossing.

Battling bouts of monotony has been a part of every crossing I’ve done. Still, to experience all the channel’s natural wonders from the tiniest seabirds to the largest spouting leviathans, the channel beckons.  With that in mind, monotony is a small price to pay for the possibilities of seeing and experiencing happenstance. The motivation is to simply go and see what’s out there.

There are also more than enough anxious, nerve-wracking moments leading up to and during a channel crossing. And as the years have mounted, the challenge to paddle across the channel remains. Being ready is also part of it. Swimming, paddling, eating well, resting, and repeating is constant. 

Weather permitting, staring across the channel is almost a daily occurrence. Over time, sea conditions have become addictive. Is it a great day to cross? Is that wall of fog looming in the west channel going to reach the east end of the channel? Is there a dark cobalt blue wind line, rippling texture signifying a small craft advisory? Or does the channel resemble a squeaky-clean mirror, as if it could be walked across?

Patience Is a Virtue

Lining up a day to paddle across the channel has always been about patience. It’s all predicated by the weather, especially winds and fog. It’s no fun paddling into the north and southbound shipping lanes when the fog decides to roll in.

Having said that, it’s nearly impossible to pick the perfect day. There’s lots of weather apps out there, but sometimes reports aren’t accurate. Still, on December 1, I decided to go. And even then, I had my reservations. A light haze had persisted for days leading up to December 1. Despite the persistent haze, I saw oil platform Grace about 12 miles northeast from the cobbled shoreline at Scorpion Anchorage on Santa Cruz Island.

There were also several squid boats just east of Scorpion Rock. I kept those brightly lit vessels along with Anacapa Island to my right, and the southeast end of Santa Cruz Island off my stern.

Farther out in the channel, visibility wasn’t great, so I also used the sea conditions to my advantage. I had a light east wind blowing into my face, with a short interval westerly swell rolling underneath my stern on my starboard side. From there, I cranked up a minimum pace of at least three mph until I arrived at the southwesterly fringe of the southbound shipping lane.

Sitting low on the water has always been a disadvantage paddling across the shipping lanes. Despite being regulated to a single lane, it’s difficult judging the angles the ships take while they move through the channel. There was a lot of looking over my left shoulder in the southbound lane until I reached the neutral lane. Fortunately, the northbound lane was uneventful too. 

And suddenly, a recognizable boat appeared. I knew Island Packers was heading out to Santa Cruz, dropping day trippers and campers on the largest isle off the California Coast. From my kayak, the Island Explorer seemed so large, as they drifted up to me. There were a lot of curious onlookers, and I sensed they had some questions, but I had to keep moving.

Fulmar Kerfuffle

It was another crossing without whales and dolphins, but I’m all in on pelagic seabirds. I’ve always admired how hardy they are in the open ocean. Remember that initial disturbance on the water? I thought it was a northern fulmar entangled on a stray white buoy. As I paddled closer, I was surprised to see this chunky, yet aerodynamic seabird gorging on a California brown pelican carcass. 

Northern fulmars migrate southward from as far away as the Arctic, and from the kayak they are approachable. One floated right up to me. The fulmar scavenging on the pelican was circled by two other fulmars and a herring gull. However, the feasting fulmar wasn’t willing to share. When the outlying seabirds tried to partake, a dust-up ensued. Calm seas were suddenly met with sharp beaks, flapping wings, and webbed feet stirring up what were otherwise glassy sea conditions.

Eventually, too many charges by the circling seabirds drove the satiated fulmar away. A lighter morphed fulmar took over, spreading its wings with each tug on the pelican carcass. 

As I aimed for the mainland, black-vented shearwaters, another far flung seabird, darted around the bow of my kayak. A playful flotilla of California sea lions torpedoed just off my stern, keeping pace, their snorting exhales let me know we were all heading in the right direction. 

I could see cars racing north and south on Highway 101. The meditative, oceanic nirvana was suddenly headbutting with the rapidly paced reality of life in the fast lane. I prefer the solitude of the Santa Barbara Channel, and the blades of my paddle slicing through the water.