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Paddler Abraham Levy paddles around Mexico

We were heading back to Campeche, Mexico, on the northern Yucatan Peninsula, and I couldn’t believe my eyes. There was a BIG storm brewing, one that would lead to the deaths of 81 oil rig workers who were caught in rough seas overnight. Yet there was a man in a sea kayak, paddling alone, the wrong direction–INTO the storm.

The man—Mexican sea kayaker Abraham Levy—ended up spending the night high up in a group of mangroves, where he wedged his kayak in for safety and stayed out of the belly of the the storm. Since then, Levy has almost finished leg one of his planned paddle around all of Mexico.

To follow Levy’s tour, visit www.abrahamlevy.com

Ultimate crossover kayak?

If you are one of the growing number of paddlers who want a stable recreational boat to fish out of, but still want something that can run rivers, Dagger has your answer right here, with it’s new “Approach” hybrid crossover kayak.

At 10 feet long, it remains two or three feet shorter than some of the early river runners from a decade ago, yet with a width of 28″, it provides a stable platform for recreational paddling, as well as a storage hatch for overnights or extended day trips on flat water.

Throw a spray skirt over the cockpit and take it down Class II or III rapids. Or go with the open cockpit and cast to redfish along the Gulf Coast. A strong hybrid for all.

Safety

A safety throwbag should be considered essential equipment for any paddler, right after your PFD and helmet. Stohlquist’s Lifeline throw-bag comes in three models—Standard, K-Pro (75-foot length), and a 50-foot kayakers model. All three have high-visibility rescue lines and quick-release buckles and clip-in loops for easy access.

So whether you’re pulling your pal from a recirculating hydraulic, or dragging a boat and your buddy to shore after a wet-exit, the Lifeline throwbag will do the trick. www.stohlquist.com

Sea Kayaking Australia’s Cocos Islands

YOU’VE NEVER been here. Of that I am reasonably certain. And I know you’ve never sea kayaked here, because we were the first. But if you go, one thing’s for sure: You won’t get lost on your way to the put-in. In Australia’s Cocos Islands you can, quite literally, walk off the plane, carry your folding sea kayak 100 yards to the water, assemble it, and paddle off—no need to make reservations, rent a car, or secure a permit. But first you have to get here.

To arrive in the Cocos, fly to the middle of nowhere and hang a left. The 27 isles (only two of which are inhabited) form an atoll in the northeast corner of the Indian Ocean and lie 1,620 miles northwest of Perth. Photographer Paul Kerrison and I arrived in April, intent on paddling among the uninhabited islands that horse- shoe around the barracuda-and-bonefish-filled lagoon. We would camp. We would fish. We would do little else.

Half of the 120 residents of 2.4-square-mile West Island are waiting outside the airport when we arrive. With only two flights a week, greeting new visitors to the Cocos is a social occasion rivaled only by good surf or happy hour. Twelve-year resident Terry Washer meets us on the ground and gives us a tour of the settlement. This takes about 20 minutes. Among the establishments are a restaurant, a bar, a dive shop, a small school, a supermarket, and some medical facilities. All the buildings are one story. Washer, 52, is owner of the Cocos Surf Shop (a glorified souvenir stand with little in the way of actual surfing gear), and one of a handful of volunteers who assist Cocos tourists (currently arriving at the dizzying pace of ten to 15 a week). He is a middle-aged version of the prototypical Australian surf bum: blond and tan. The man is long past the point of taking life any other way but easy. While walking to the shoebox-size tourism office, I see through the palm trees what appears to be an impressive left surf break curling up about 90 feet from shore.

“Looks like some nice waves,” I say.

“We don’t talk about the surfing here,” Terry replies.

The message is friendly but clear: We know you’re here to write about us, but that doesn’t mean we want our surf splattered all over the pages of your magazine just so some billionaire can come build a casino with a view. It is a shared, not altogether secret, sentiment on the Cocos—we got it good, let’s keep it that way.

At the tourism office, Terry shows us an aerial map of the islands and we put together a rough five-day itinerary. We’d spend the first night on a tiny nub southeast of West Island called Pulu Blan, about an hour’s paddle away. We’d return to West Island on day two, resupply with food and water, and paddle seven miles across the lagoon, spending the next two nights on any of the small islands on the southeast side of the atoll. Our fourth and fifth nights would be spent on either Home or West Island, depending on time, tide, and muscle soreness.

Having hatched a plan, we walk over to the local market, a concrete, two-aisle affair filled with the scent of fresh produce that, like us, has recently come off the plane. We grab granola bars, PB&J, and a loaf of bread.

“I’m sorry, you can’t buy that,” says the clerk, pointing to the bread. I turn the loaf over and see a name written on the side of the paper bag. Fresh bread, we are told—fresh anything, for that matter—is a commodity ordered in advance. We may purchase only the frozen variety. So we do, and 30 minutes later we’re on the water, the setting sun warming our shoulders as we paddle wide-eyed across the turquoise expanse toward our first campsite, about two miles away. Everything Paul and I know about the Cocos Islands at this point could be scribbled on a gum wrapper, with room to spare.

THE NEXT MORNING we dally around our makeshift campsite, a stretch of searing-white sand ten feet from the water that we share with a few dozen palm-size crabs. We pay no mind to the rapidly dropping tide—a crucial mistake that turns our first morning paddle into a sunbaked trudge across the flats. When we finally reach the beach back on West Island, the temperature is in the nineties and we are dying for nothing more than a cold Pepsi. But that would be our second mistake. The sign on the door of the restaurant tells the story. Lunch: 12 to 1. We are late and thirsty.

After tracking down drinking water and waiting for the tide to rise, Paul and I head back out across the bay, intent on reaching the east side before dark. But two windy hours later we are only halfway. It is then that we remember something Terry’s daughter Emma, 21, had said back in the tourism office as we scanned an aerial photo of the lagoon.

“You don’t want to paddle across those,” she said, pointing to dark spots in the water. “Those are black holes. That’s where they live.”

They are tiger sharks, second in size and ferocity only to the great white, reaching a
Paddling across deep patches where the bottom drops away to nothingness is very unnerving.
length of 18 feet and weighing more than 2,000 pounds. At the time we laughed it off as superstition, but we later heard credible talk of at least one, possibly two, resident tigers that occasionally take refuge in these holes. Paddling across these freaky, deep patches of indigo, where the bottom drops abruptly away to reveal nothingness, is so unnerving that I soon stop looking down altogether. It is during one of these hole crossings that I hear a yell from Paul that freezes me on the spot. Looking in his direction, I see an enormous white fin, five times the size of the reef-shark fins we’ve been seeing all day, slicing swiftly through the water just beyond the bow of his boat. I’ve never felt so instantaneously terrified in my life. When the fin disappears, Paul suggests that I paddle up behind him so that we can present a much larger silhouette to anything looking up from below.

“Why do I have to paddle in back?” I ask.

“Because that’s the half they bite off,” he replies.

In retrospect, Paul and I both believe that we really saw the underside of a large manta ray. At least, that’s what we’re telling ourselves.

AFTER ANOTHER close call with the tide, we finally reach the island of Pulu Pandan, where we pitch our tents in the dark under a dozen coconut trees and are soon asleep, exhausted from our four-hour crossing. The next day is not pleasant. A burly storm coming straight from Java builds slowly throughout the day, and by late afternoon we are treated to 60-mile-per-hour gusts, with 700 miles of ocean fueling the waves from behind. A direct hit by a cyclone would be devastating to the Cocos, but with a total land mass of six square miles, the chances of that are as remote as the islands themselves. Yet many have come close, including Harriet in February of ‘92, which pushed to within six miles of shore and sent wind speeds to 101 miles per hour. Today it’s far too gusty to paddle so we spend much of the day attempting to catch dinner in an arm of the lagoon 20 feet from camp. Paul finally reels in a small sweetlip and we cook it while taking refuge from the storm on the deck of one of the small fishing huts the Cocos Malay people have built throughout the islands. Amazingly, I get cold.

We wake the next morning to the sound of a small outboard pulling up to shore. Two men get out, check to make sure we haven’t disturbed their hut, and hand-dig half a dozen crabs from the sand before heading back out to bigger water. The storm has cleared and Paul and I are soon on the water ourselves, paddling two miles toward the Cocos Malay settlement on Home Island.

Cocos Malay people make up about four-fifths of the atoll’s population of 500. They are descendants of the original inhabitants, who were imported as slaves from throughout Indonesia to help cultivate the coconut-oil business of John Clunies Ross, a Scottish sailor who settled in the Cocos in the late 1820s. He and his family ran the islands for the next 150 years, until selling them to Australia in 1978. The islands are now managed by a locally elected governing body called the Cocos Islands Shire Council, composed of members from both Home and West Islands. Despite the integration with Australia, the Cocos Malay have kept intact one of the world’s least-known cultures—tourists weren’t allowed on the islands until 1991, unless they made arrangements in advance for a place to stay.

The sound of prayers floating off Home Island makes its way across the water as we approach. It is the second of five prayers the devout Islamic Cocos Malay people say daily, and the beauty of the old language removes the soggy memories of the previous day. We beach our boats among the jukongs, elegant wooden sailboats, lining the shore, evidence of the islanders’ impressive woodworking skills. I take a short walk along the narrow, palm-shaded streets and notice that the buildings of Home Island have an orderliness to them that brings to mind a military base—not surprising considering the Cocos were used during World War II for that very purpose, serving briefly in 1945 as home to more than 8,000 Allied troops from Britain and India. The people here are dressed brightly, in reds, oranges, and yellows. I see a small slice of America—a Michael Jordan tank top on a nine-year-old boy.

After a whirlwind tour of the island that included everything from taking in a sailing race to watching a circumcision ceremony, we decide that we have no desire to paddle over the black holes again. Instead, we load our kayaks onto the 50-foot ferry shuttling people back across the lagoon.

YOU’D THINK residents of a place so far removed, with a total land mass smaller than that of some American malls, would socialize among themselves whenever possible. Not so. The Cocos Malay on Home Island and the Aussies on West Island operate in dual worlds separated physically by a seven-mile lagoon and culturally by religious differences and nearly 200 years of isolation. Though interisland camaraderie is on the upswing, the two groups are content to keep to themselves. “We’re starting to do a little more together but they’re very protective of their culture,” says one West Island resident. “It’s hard socially because they forbid alcohol—and we’re Australians, so we drink like bloody fish.”

Later that night, while drinking with the Aussies on West Island, we are introduced to their culture, including a unique style of tequila shot that involves drinking only after squeezing the lime into your eye and snorting the salt up your nose. We leave the next morning as most people leave any tropical island: reluctantly, with a promise to return. When I ask Terry what the greatest thing has been about living on the Cocos for more than a decade, he says something about watching his two daughters grow up here.

“Anything else?”

He doesn’t answer, just smiles and nods toward the waves breaking nearby.

“I understand,” I say. “We can’t talk about that.”

Kayaking Belize

Bob Pickett really wanted to see a boa constrictor. Actually Bob really wanted to touch a boa constrictor. Well actually, Bob really wanted to find a boa constrictor; wrap it around his neck like a Hawaiian lei, and get a photo taken to show the boys back home. Lucky for Bob, when your four days deep into the Belizean jungle, finding a willing boa is not only possible, but likely. And by then, wrapping it a round your neck doesn’t even seem that weird.

Pickett was one of nine people who joined me last March on the second commercial decent of southern Belize’s Upper Swasey River, which drops east from the Maya Mountains and empties into the Caribbean Sea near the resort community of Placencia. The week long trip is one of seven offered by Island Expeditions, a Vancouver, Canada-based outfitter that, despite its name, has made great strides in helping Belize’s many ecotourists look inland for their adventures. While the sun and scuba of the outer reef will forever be the favorite for most Belize travelers, it is the raw interior, the jungles and jaguars and mystery of the rainforest experience that define this Central American country. The Sale Si Puede (sal-eh see pweh-day) Jungle expedition involves two days of hiking to reach the river, followed by a three-and-a-half-day Class II-III paddling descent. The trip isn’t too easy and it isn’t too hard- it’s exactly what adventure travel should be.

I arrived in Belize a day later than the rest of the group, thus missing the warm up hike to a cave outside of Belize City known as “The Burial Vault.” Having visited the cave before, however, I can attest to it being aptly named and well worth the hike. (Though a little freaky what with the skeletons and all.) On the second day, we headed south from Dangriga toward a small village called Maya Center, which sits on the edge of 102,000- acre Cockscomb Jaguar Reserve- the first and only jaguar reserve in the world. There, we listened to a local biologist eloquently describe the virtues of Felis Onca, as well as the history of the park and it’s Mayan villagers.

Jaguar numbers in the Cockscomb Basin were once pushed to extinction, but have rebounded to the point that some people-hunters in particular- are asking if the recovery efforts have gone too far. Regardless, the reserve is now home to the largest concentration of Jaguars north of the Amazon Basin. And come morning, we’d be hiking among them.

The trail into the Sale Si Puede camp (translation: “leave if you can”) runs through Belize’s version of a national forest, so anybody could hike here if they wished. But few do, mostly because they’d have to find the trailhead. Plus there’s that pesky Jaguar thing. Porters had already hauled our two person inflatable kayaks and most of the heavy gear into the river, so we all carried light packs consisting mostly of our personal belongings. Our head guide was Bill Sirota, formerly part owner of Island Adventures, who proved to be an excellent paddler, cook, and storyteller. Two Belizean guides, Greg and Pedro Sho, completed the party hiking in shorts and black rubber boots like they were off to dig a trench in somebody’s back yard.

A two day hike though the Central American jungle is a unique and fulfilling experience all by it’s self, but it’s also a rather extraordinary way to meet your fellow travelers. Bob it turns out, was not just a boa fan, but also fancied himself something of a birder. As were several other members of the group. As were Jane, His traveling partner. And we’re not talking about casual birding here. I thought I knew birders after years of rowing them downstream in Wyoming, but I now realize that those people were B-league birders at best. Belizean birders were a whole different breed. We’re talking about checklists and reference books. And not just for the birds. They brought snake books and bug books and books on Belize botany. They would ask about every single insect and plant and piece of poop they came across, examining a piece of animal scat like there was a lottery ticket hidden inside. I was in awe. And amazingly, I got sucked into it. I thought I was just there looking for a paddling trip but suddenly, I cared whether that was a scarlet macaw that flew by. Before I knew it, I was asking our guides questions myself. And they answered every one of them- honestly, I believe- long after I’d have been lying through my teeth.

Peter Rutherford and Gerry Lauro were also on the trip- two middle-aged guys from New Jersey who each had teenage daughters back home. “Of course, you know what having teen daughters at home means,” Gerry said laughing. ” It means that we never know anything.” Which, it turns out, is just slightly more than either of them knew about paddling.

The only other commercial trip into the Sale Si Puede had occurred the previous January and it took considerably longer for the group to reach the river. Hurricane Mitch had destroyed much of the existing trail and precious time was spent clearing away fallen trees or hacking a way around what had fallen. Watching Greg and Pedro clear away the occasional patch of jungle growth was, impressive taking as much time with their machetes as it would have taken four guys with axes and chainsaws. By the time we reached the river we were ready for a swim, aided by the Tarzan- type vine that dangled down to the water.

We spent most of our day pulling our boats up stream, staring up the face of 3,675-foot Victoria Peak- the highest in Belize. It was tough going at times, but the payoff was worth the effort, a perfect camp at the junction of two streams. While the others went for a hike, Pedro and I decided to go fishing. This, of course, turned into a competition. (Despite cultural differences, we were both, after all, guys.) We were going for two types of fish-muchaca, an aggressive feeder shaped like a trout; and tuba, a sort of bluegill-looking thing, only with fangs. So off we went, me with $1,000 fly fishing outfit, Pedro with string and a piece of cucumber. And of course he out fished me. and he wasn’t quiet about it either. I mean, I didn’t really know Pedro yet but after he had me down 2-0, everyone from Honduras to the Yucatan Peninsula could’ve heard him. “HOW YOU DOING TOM? YOU GET A FISH YET? TOM?!! I GOT TWO -YOU SEE!?”, he’d say holding them up from the back of his boat. I couldn’t believe it. I was getting my ass handed to me by a guy fishing with a cucumber. Luckily I had a strong second half, regained some pummeled pride, and together we caught enough that Bill was able to make the whole camp some fish stew.

Our descent began the following morning-two to a boat-and continued for three days, weaving down small rapids and portaging around anything questionable. There was nothing in the Class IV category, but there was more consistent Class IIs and IIIs than I was expecting. A few people wrapped boats, including Peter (hourly), as well as (OK, full disclosure) yours truly and Sarah, my paddling partner. Luckily, with 70-degree water, much of it less than waist deep, you simply hopped out and fixed the problem. It was about as enjoyable a paddle as you could ask for considering the groups skill level-in -other words, enough to keep you interested, but rarely enough to frighten you.

Improved campsites don’t really exist along the river, which meant that Greg and Pedro had to create them as we went along- again, displaying impressive woodsmanship. We stopped to scout rapids and eat lunch along shoulders. You know, “Picture for the boys back home.”

For more info: www.Islandxpeditions.com.

Kayaking near Moab, Utah

You should know right away that I don’t like paddling much. I mean, it looks pretty cool and all, but I don’t have opposable thumbs, which means I can’t hold a paddle, which means “going paddling” for me and other dogs translates to “going swimming,” which, as any beginning kayaker will tell you, is another sport entirely.

Not that I’m a bad swimmer. I’m actually pretty good what with these webbed feet I got. But a dog’s brain (mine, at least) never seems quite able to grasp the idea of “running along the bank.” My owner likes to say I’ll do it while he paddles downstream but it usually doesn’t work out that way. In fact, seems like the whole “what to do with the dog” thing is about the only bad part about paddling. ‘Cause when we’re going somewhere and I hear Tom planning on running a certain section of river, I know it means I get to sit in the truck and wait. Which pretty much sucks.

But we found a place this spring that’s a good paddle for humans–’specially humans who aren’t all that good–and I could keep up just by running or swimming alongside. I’d like to tell you ‘zactly where it is because it’d prolly be a cool place for you to go but Tom says finding places is half the fun and that the desert can’t handle too many dogs and people at once anyway and that it wasn’t easy for us to find so why should he just hand directions over to somebody else and besides I can’t read a map anyway so I’d prolly get it all wrong.

All I know is that we were in the bottom half of some state starting with a “U” and there were more rabbits to chase than there was water to drink. And I also know that we drove really nice cars (which I hate, because I like to be dirty) to the edge of something called a “Willerness Area.” I’m not too sure what that means, except that we (finally) got to get out and walk and Tom had to carry his kayak a long ways on his head–ha, ha!

(Side note to humans: When playing in the desert, make sure your dog stays away from sharp, spiny things called cactuses. I got pretty good at avoiding them but I got one in my paw after chasing a rabbit and I was bummin’ for a while.)

When we finally got to the water it was low and perfect. The humans were saying it was flowing at “just under a hundert,” whatever that means. You might not think it was perfect if you only like to run really big, scary stuff, but a ranger-type person told us that the canyon where we were would be really high and scary in June, which is a couple months after we were there. But hopefully you wouldn’t have a dog and an inflatable kayak with you then.

We went during something humans call “spring break” and it was perfect timing for me. If you want to bring your dog, it would also be good to go in September or October (assuming your dog isn’t hunting birds then, which is what I’ll be doing.) We spent the first night in a place that sounds kinda like “lab,” only with an “m” and an “o” at the beginning of it. And, like I said, it was spring break so there were lots of motorcycles and jeeps and other noisy things there that I don’t think I could keep up with and that looked like they might run me over even if I tried. But the cool thing is, where we went, where this canyon is, with the water and the rabbits, there was nobody else–no other humans, no cats, no nothin’.

Not very far into the float, we came across something pretty-scary-something called a rockfall–that blocked our way. Now, I’m pretty tough, but I just couldn’t hurl myself into the pool below like the humans did. First of all, I’m a dog so I’m not very tall. Second, we were in this thing called a “slot canyon” and I didn’t see another way out if I got down there and couldn’t get back out. They were all calling my name and shouting “C’mon, you can do it!” But I was thinking, “You’re the humans. You dragged me down here and if you want to continue this little hike you call a paddling trip you better figure out a way to get me down there because I ain’t jumping!” Finally, Tom came up and dragged me around by my collar so we could keep going.

(Side note to humans: It would be a good idea to have a life jacket for your dog when doing this sort of thing–not just to prevent drowning but also to provide warmth. Like I said, I’m pretty tough (and big and strong and rather good looking) but even I would have liked a doggie PFD on this trip. Luckily, Kathy and Hatalie didn’t mind me hopping in their inflatable kayak when I got tired of swimming.)

The humans got to paddle quite a bit considering how many times I was able to just walk along next to them in paw deep water. And all the rockfalls helped me catch up to them when they were getting ahead–which is good, because sometimes I had to swim so long I thought I was gonna boot. I’ve never been very good at math but I’d say you can figure about a mile an hour in the slot canyon if you go when we went or in the fall.

(Side note to humans: In July and August, in addition to being too hot for anybody with a brain to be in the desert, there are also sometimes these things called thunderstorms, which sometimes cause these other things called flash floods. And though they are often less “flashy” than some humans make ‘em sound, even my lil’ dog brain can figure out that a slot canyon is not the place you want to experience one.)

The sun was going down when we got out and I was really tired. But it was still the best paddling trip I ever went on. (Well, ‘cept for that one when I got to ride on the raft the whole time.) So I say you should take your dog to one of these slot canyon places this fall. And if you need someone to show you the way…I’m available.