Paddles inside

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Namely, inside the wood block (roughly a 2 x 4) I've just bought and inside my head. I look at the 2 x 4 and compare them. So far, they are identical. That's good as, of course, the paddle in my mind is just terrific. However, although they are both beautiful, none will be much use to propel a kayak in their present state and that detracts from their appeal. Therefore, I must now resort to my craftsmanship to extract a paddle as similar as possible to the one in my head from the wood. Put that way, it sounds pretty. Problem is that, currently, all that can be honestly said of my skill as a craftsman is what m my old military card used to say of my courage: supposed.



Consequently, it shouldn't be much of a surprise that I face this task with some vague apprehension. My courage, at least for military purposes, will remain an unknown (and long may it last so), but my capabilities as a do-it-yourselfer are going to be tested and, right now, that's something I cannot take lightly. In the past, I would have cared very little whether I could produce a serviceable Greenland paddle or not, but presently this links directly with much cherished projects. If the outcome is satisfactory, there will be more paddles (Arctic kayakers managed to produce a diversity of models to tempt my curiosity) and, maybe, kayaks (dreaming is cheap...). So far, all I can say is that I enjoyed fine-tuning the tools and obtained a decent result. I'm moderately optimistic.



To sum up, I guess this attempt to build a paddle represents a challenge, a chance to learn and train, and, hopefully, a stress-reducing pastime . All at once, and all for the relatively modest cost of a bit of wood and some simple hand tools. There aren't that many hobbies that can offer so much just from collateral efforts as sea kayaking, I'd say.

And I might end up with a paddle too.

Eskimo Roll I: The Others (Kitunarautaq).

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For those not in the know: the eskimo roll is the maneuver that returns capsized kayak and upside down paddler to the conventional, upright position. The latter is much less stable, but it is often preferable, particularly on the long term, as, among other advantages, it tends to make cruising and breathing sensibly easier.

The eskimo roll came to us from the Arctic through Greenland and, in this area (by no means the only one), that tradition weighs heavily on kayaking's collective unconscious. Details of the technique do not belong here, but its mention tends to conjure up images of sleek, low-decked, sharp-ended boats with seamlessly fitting paddlers among the initiated. For most modern, western kayaks that typically requires astutely arranged spraydecks, thigh braces, seats, foot braces, etc.



Pretty much every instructor facing the unenviable task to teach rolling to, for example, guys like I remarks the need of reasonably close paddler/boat fit. Rightly so. In my only attempt at learning to roll, I could realize how what I had up to then considered rather adequate fit to my kayak was actually quite lacking. I believe this did contribute to my failure, but, at the same time, it provided me with a great excuse ("I've actually got it, it's just the fit...")



That's why I was especially intrigued by the images of the other Arctic kayakers for which, besides the Greenlanders, rolling seems to have been reasonably common. Or, at least, to have survived contact with westerners long enough to be adequately documented. They were the inhabitants of the coast of Alaska in the area of the Bering Strait and Sea. In particular, the maneuver seems to have lasted longer in King Island, in front of Nome, where at the beginning of the last century this paddler was photographed executing the technique they called kitunarautaq.



And, as you may notice, they rolled wide boats, with beams greater than 60 cm (up to, or even above, 70 cm with some frequency), rather short, no longer than 5 m, with tall decks and ample volume and with cockpits so spacious they could accommodate two passengers riding back to back. Oh, and they did it with single-bladed paddles.



Although, actually, the paddle part is what I find less surprising. I wonder more about how a paddler in such a roomy boat and whose seat is a woven grass mat is anchored into his kayak and things like that. Truth is that knowing about these other rollers encourages me. If they made it in the conditions the pictures seem to suggest, there might be hope for me yet.

Tool Taming

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These past days, a sizable chunk of my spare time has been spent tenaciously sliding a bench plane back and forth over strips of sandpaper of varying coarseness. It may not be readily apparent to the general public, but I am actually involved in a very respectable ceremony called, I believe, "Planing the Sole". It happens to be just one part of a series of arcane rituals destined to ready woodworking tools for action.



You see: I hope to build a Greenland paddle for myself (inevitably, more on this sometime soon). Such a project requires adequate wood, working space and tools. Wood has been located and ordered, working space improbably produced and tools (or, rather, what may become tools) bought. Woodworking skills may be needed as well, but, as I totally lack any woodworking experience, I try not to dwell on that too much. It would dampen my spirits and, as I fear that the challenges that I vaguely suspect await a novice woodworker will do that anyway, I see no need to rush it. Every thing in its due time.

Fortunately, the useful Kayak de Mar Forum is visited by a number of benign woodworking gurus. They kindly impart their wisdom upon the likes of me and, thus, I've deduced that buying artful contraptions is only the beginning to obtaining real, work-worthy tools. From their teachings, I've learned of the existence of the "tools-you-can-trust-and-actually-enjoy-using". Mythical objects that must be earned, not just bought, and for which money may just be a minor part (well, relatively) of what you have to pay.





And this is how, for about a week now, my free moments have been spent doggedly planing soles and honing blades. Early success with a Stanley spokeshave possibly bred undue confidence. I suppose the glitter of metal smoother and sharper than I thought I could possibly produce can do that to those, like me, new to the experience. However, the #4 bench plane of the same brand has decided that it will not submit without a fight.

The sources of instruction mentioned above have informed me that a plane's sole simply *must* be incredibly level and smooth in, at least, 3 critical areas. Makes lot of sense, as the tool's purpose is to give you flat and smooth wood. However, luck and mass production have conspired to place the deepest of the pockets and irregularities of my plane's original sole in precisely one of these critical locations. It just can not be ignored. Therefore, I'm being forced to sand away pretty much the whole sole surface till everything is level with the furthest point of the rebellious recess. It may not sound like much, but, by hand, it is a respectable amount of metal to thin and it is taking its time.

Fine with me, though. Wolves had to be tamed to become dogs. Colts have to be broken. I can be patient. I have a past as an angler.

Plus, there are benefits: I am thoroughly committing to muscle memory the motions of planing, the exercise builds character and it should also serve as cautionary example to the block plane (a Stanley too) that comes next.




And then, the builders in the Arctic produced not just paddles, but whole boats and all sorts of useful gear (often beautiful too) with little more than the tools illustrating this post. However, I suspect that what surgical precision their instruments may have lacked, they amply made for with skill gained through a lifetime of mentoring by elders and practice. At this stage of my life, I do not think I can conveniently reproduce those conditions (I'd like to have my paddle while I still can use it). So, I have to go for tool-taming and hope for the best.

THE IMAGES
Click on them to learn more about the Inuit tools they depict in their pages in the site of the McCord Museum. A kindly institution that represents a terrific resource for graphically-depreived bloggers like me

Official Opening...

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At last, I've given in.

I' ve started a blog too. It's just a whim, without reasons nor clear goals. Which I find comforting. With no other expectation than passing some time and writing just for myself, there can be neither duty nor frustration. It's just as simple, or as complex, as feeling like storing somewhere whatever goes through my mind in relation to the practice of Kayak Touring. Although, knowing me, I suspect it may not be the only topic that will show up here.

Kayak Touring is also, possibly more generally, known as Sea Kayaking. However, I live almost smack in the center of Spain. About as far from the ocean as one can be in this country. And I'm coming to realize that I paddle in freshwater more often than in the brine (and, I fear, in my mind more often than in water of any kind). Fact of life, I'm afraid...

Semantics, aside, the thing, at least for me, consists of using a kayak to gain access to special places and moments. That's it. To me, that typically happens through contemplation and fulfilled curiosity rather than, let's say, an adrenalin discharge. It's not that I actively shy away from what may be called "action". It's simply that I tend to like my "action" as a mean to some end rather than pursuing it for its own sake.

Starting this blog in these dates has been wholly unintentional, but I realize that it's now about a year that thanks to the Kayak de Mar forum and the generosity of Félix, their previous owner, I acquired boat, paddle and spraydeck. It was not the beginning, as it had all started quite a while before, but it was, without a doubt, a beginning.

Like this post.


THE IMAGE
It's reasonably clear to me that blogs sport images, don't they? In this area, I will have to resort to the talent and generosity of others. In an attempt to make my rants a tad more palatable, I've selected this picture from Alaska in the 1910's because it shows a kayak of a type of proven seaworthiness, fine craftmanship and, to my eyes at least, elegant (I don't think the photo does full justice to the boat). If I've got it right, kayaks such as this were used in the Cape Espenberg area of the Seward Peninsula, in the Bering Strait. But, most of all, I've chosen this image because my kayak produces in me the same expression theirs has elicited in those kids. It may not always be immediately apparent from the outside, but, inside, that's just the look on my face.