Chickahominy Riverfront Park to Ragged Island WMA, 25 miles
At the end of this long day of paddling, it seemed hard to believe that it had all happened in one day. I left Chickahominy at 6:45 a.m. and pulled up on the beach at Ragged Island at 7:15 p.m. and other than some time waiting for Tom and the gang at the Jamestown Yacht Basin, I did not stop for more than 20 minutes at a time. The day started with breaking camp by moonlight. It was a pretty morning and everything went smoothly until I got ready to leave and realized the light morning fog had turned into “pea soup.” I had never paddled in thick fog before, but decided that since I was basically just following the shoreline down to Jamestown I would give it a try. Staying close to shore, I could see the tree line and even some of the houses built near the water; but the thick fog was still quite disorienting. Working my way out of the Chickahominy River I passed under the bridge which quickly faded into the fog, but I could still hear the construction equipment from the new bridge. I got to a spot where the shore turned to the left and the chart showed a big cove. I decided to cut across the mouth of this cove instead of following the shoreline which left me paddling blind – unable to see anything but fog. Before losing site of the near shore, I took a reverse bearing so that if I got turned around I could at least paddle back.
I tried my best to paddle in a straight line and after five to ten minutes, I was able to make out a tree line ahead. I kept paddling along the shoreline and it matched the chart pretty well, but I decided to make sure of my location by checking my compass bearing. Surprise, surprise I was paddling Northwest when I thought I should be paddling south. Now, I could not figure out how I had screwed up that bad, it did not seem possible that I could have paddled in a circle in the fog, plus the faint construction noises still seemed to be coming from behind me. I decided that I must just be in a little cut that circled back and was not shown clearly on the chart, so I kept paddling. A few minutes later, the same thing. I think I should be going south and the compass says west. I debated just stopping and waiting out the fog, but despite the compass, it felt like I was going the right way. I paddled a little further and rounded a left hand turn and checked the compass again – it had been west, so now it should read south; instead it was pointing north! Suddenly it dawned on me, I had my compass on its lanyard running from the pocket on my PFD out the bottom of my paddling jacket , which was worn over the PFD. Because of the paddling jacket, I could not pull the compass away from my chest as I normally would to take a bearing. Compass Variance!!! The magnet in my VHF Radio was skewing my compass reading. I took off the jacket and sure enough, with the compass held in front of me, it read east – exactly the direction I thought I should be travelling at that point.
This episode taught me a valuable lesson about paying attention to your surroundings when you have the chance. During this time of confusion, I paddled past a golf course. On the way into the Chickahominy River the morning before, I had been tired and focused on the near shore. I paid no attention to the opposite shore, not even enough to remember if there was a river front golf course. Paddling in, I thought I would use Swann’s Point across the James as my landmark for the paddle out. Only problem was that when it was time to paddle, the fog prohibited me from seeing 100 feet away, much less all the way across the James. It really is critical to be aware of your surroundings and consider what different areas will look like from other directions of travel. I certainly could have stayed ashore and waited the fog out, but it gave me a chance to put some skills to the test and to learn a couple of my “book” lessons for myself. I even blew my whistle a few times when the fog was at its thickest and I thought that there may be other boats nearby. Despite the fog, I still saw three bald eagles on the paddle to Jamestown. I suspect that the fog limited their vision and hearing as well as mine, allowing me to get closer than perhaps I would at other times.
With the fog still thick but the sky beginning to lighten a little, I continued my paddle over to Jamestown Marina – not much of a marina, particularly for a place that calls itself a yacht basin. To get to the marina, you have to paddle past the replica ships, under the bridge, past where the Thorofare cuts off to the right and continue up Powhatan Creek. The channel is narrow and marked only with long reeds with solar lights lashed to them. It was fine in my kayak, but looking at some of the 30+ foot boats stored at the marina, I would want to make sure I was negotiating Powhatan Creek at high tide. Despite the fog, I had covered the 7 miles fairly quickly and was the first of the group to arrive. While I was waiting I made my lunch sandwiches and even ate a PB&H for breakfast. Slowly the Virginia Sea Kayak Center gang started to show up. Tom was coordinating some filming of local paddlers and destinations, so had invited some of their students out. In addition to Tom, Tony Paccuzi, Joel, Sherry and a guy named Charles were there. Tony I’ve paddled with several times and is always good to see him. Joel and Sherry I had only paddled with once previously but it was great to hear about their recent Adventure Race in Tierra del Fuego, Patagonia.
The morning was about setting up shots for the camera, not covering miles. After so many miles of paddling alone, I felt a bit like a Chatty Cathy doll asking questions and telling stories. We paddled out Powhatan Creek enjoying the morning now that the fog had lifted. The skies were still gray, but we got to see many osprey and heron, a few of which even played along for the camera. We paddled back to the replica ships which are just past the Jamestown/Scotland ferry dock. The tourists were out in full force and it was fun to watch the excitement onshore from our kayaks. I showed off with a roll of the fully loaded Expedition which resulted in some admiring claps from the replicas and some soggy charts in my slightly torn chart case.
Me being interviewed by Bryan Smith in front of the Replica Ships at Jamestown
It is such a privilege to paddle these waters and being around Jamestown reminds me of it. Certainly the English history is fascinating; to contemplate the courage that it took to up stakes and cross the Atlantic. Then to struggle for survival with little support system to fall back on. The strength and resilience of these settlers and explorers is unmatched in today’s world. The explorations of John Smith and the others in the shallop traced the rivers and lands of tidewater Virginia, but also captured valuable information about the Native Americans who were already occupying those lands and using these bodies of water. While the European history with these waters started in 1607, they have been the super-highways and larder of the land we now call Virginia for much, much longer.
We paddled down to Historic Jamestowne Island and I shared with the group what I knew of the history, most of it learned when we attended the 400th Anniversary Celebration in 2007. Recent archeology has revealed that the original fort site has not dropped completely in the river as was long believed, but only one corner of the triangular fort has succumbed to erosion. It was humbling to think we might be paddling over the exact spot where part of the fort stood.
While admiring the John Smith statute on shore, I saw the family that I met at Berkeley Plantation on Tuesday hailing me. We visited some more about our respective trips. They spent Wednesday at Williamsburg and then were headed to the Shenandoah National Park before heading home to New York. It was fun to see them and to hopefully contribute to a great vacation memory for the kids. The boy had asked me about rolling my kayak when we were at Berkeley, so figuring the charts were already soggy, I gave him a demonstration. It was a sloppy roll, but at least I came up.
My paddling group was heading back to the west and I had no desire to add any repeat miles to what was going to be a long day, so I bid my farewell. It was great to have paddling partners, even if for just a brief time. I paddled down to the Lower Point on Jamestowne Island and made the crossing to Hog Island Wildlife Management Area. I was pretty tired by the time I got over there, so pulled onto a pretty beach right on the point of Hog Island and stretched out on the sand for a few minutes. When I got back in the boat there were two fishermen just around the point. We visited for a few minutes about the trip and their fishing. The question I was asked most frequently on the trip by people on or near the river, was “catching anything?” I’m not sure where they think I’m hiding my fishing pole, but always answer that “I’m just paddling today.” My answer often drew a funny look or more questions about where I started or how far I was headed. The other frequent question was about the strange contraption strapped to my back deck – fun to explain that it started life as a golf bag cart, but was now a kayak cart.
Past Hog Island is the National Defense Reserve Fleet, better known as the Ghost Fleet. These are retired Navy ships that are not ready for the scrap heap yet, either because they could be useful in the future or their hulls still hold radioactive or other material that makes mothballing them a better option. I took several pictures but they were all too far away to tell much of anything. I tried to stay at least 500 feet away and the area was patrolled frequently by black helicopters but I did see one powerboat running very close and even between the rows of ships.
I paddled down the shoreline and decided to cut across the mouth of Burwell Bay to save the extra miles. Close to a five mile open crossing and about ¾ of the way across the wind picked up and was blowing in my face. My plan was still to stop at Fort Boykin Park for the night, but cutting across the Bay it was not clear which property was the park. There were two houses close together on a huge tract of beach with matching jetties and well manicured grass. It had a flag pole, what looked like signs and a couple cars parked away from the buildings so figured that it must be the park. As I finally got close to shore it began looking more like a private residence. Oh well, I was tired and there. I pulled up onto the first part of the beach, well away from the houses and decided to go up the dunes and plead my case for permission to camp on their beach. After walking up the access trail to the houses where I could then tell that the two houses were separated by only a few feet. One was white, the other cedar with odd, solid doors with deadbolts in each of them. No door on the cedar house appeared to be a front door, or appeared welcoming in any way. I knocked at both houses but it seemed no one was around except for the open garage door on the white house. One ATV and a lot of ATV helmets and gear was in the garage along with a huge sign warning of the danger of ATVs, but also saying “Absolutely No Riding on the Airstrip.” The houses were not fancy, fairly plain with some maintenance needed. I wondered where they had found this sign about ATV riding and the airstrip. I began to walk back downriver but up on the top of the dune level to see if I could find anyone out riding. As I walked, I realized that the sign was custom made – there was a very long, private, paved airstrip next to the houses. While not sure of who owned the property, it was clear from the airstrip that they had some money. I went down the dunes to my kayak and started looking at my chart again.
After the walk and rest, I decided that the four or five miles remaining to Ragged Island was achievable. As I was stowing my loose gear and getting ready to push off I suddenly hear jet engines and then can see the tail of a private jet obviously taxing around. I briefly considered going back up and asking for permission, but my guess was they were the type of people who like their privacy. What a piece of property. By the time I paddled down past the houses there was a large middle aged man, a couple teen agers or young adults and a woman out on deck admiring the spectacular view. The plane immediately took back off and flew away. Now that is the way to get to the river for a long weekend! I paddled across the mouth of the Pagan River and then stopped as soon as I made it to WMA land. I set up a quick camp right on the sand and climbed into the tent. It was a beautiful place to enjoy the rest of the evening outside, but it was buggy and I had been outside enough for one day. I crawled inside and looked out of my tent at a beautiful view of the river.
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