Spring Break on Little Tybee Island

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Last week I guided a group from The University of Vermont’s Outing Club on their spring break trip to Georgia. The phrase ‘spring break’ conjures all kinds of images, but I would guess that very few involve chilly rain, freezing temperatures, winds so strong you can’t paddle against them, or pooping into plastic bags. Georgia in the spring can be hit or miss. The previous week was much warmer – warm enough that I packed my summer sleeping bag. I even brought a spring-break-worthy Aloha shirt.

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Of course, students in the outing club probably want to have a more rugged experience than those headed to the predictable spring break mayhem further south, which is a good thing, since our trip was no picnic. One might even say some parts began to feel like a bit of an ordeal, especially if one had visions of drunken beach volleyball, or whatever it is they do down at Daytona. But maybe it’s possible that we get a bit more out of some of these more trying experiences. 

We arrived at Skidaway State Park in Georgia late on Saturday night after two long days of driving (three days for me, since I’d started by driving from Maine to Burlington). Sunday was a day to buy food, check-in at Savannah Canoe & Kayak for some local knowledge from Matt & Ben, and then a couple of hours on the Skidaway River, where we worked on basic skills and got our first capsize out of the way. Fortunately, the group was well-equipped with drysuits and good attitudes.

We launched in the rain from Tybee Island on Monday and, not wanting to lug camping gear too far through the low-tide mud, hung-out on a massive sandbar for awhile as the tide rose. This sandbar is, as far as I can tell, the ‘triangle’ that has put Tybee on the map for so many paddlers. Some seem to refer to it as if its name came from some sort of Bermuda Triangle-type demonic influence on the sea state, but seen from above, this pile of sand at the mouth of Tybee Creek is, yes- triangular. For sure though, outgoing currents merge with ocean swells, and I can imagine the shifting sands create all kinds of waves when covered with water and the western wind isn’t knocking-down wave height. 

On Monday at low tide, waves hit the ocean side while the western lee side was calm- a nice spot for a walk.

After our break there, we continued south a short distance to Myrtle Island and found a campsite in a palm grove at the head of a beach littered with the skeletal remains of uprooted live oaks. We anticipated a high, post- full moon high tide that evening, so we tied-up the boats and I watched, a bit nervously, as the tide rose. At its height, the tallest waves sent a surge through the campsite, floating our tied-up kayaks. I waited for it to begin receding before I pitched my tent in the rain.

During the night though, the storm moved out to sea and we had this idyllic beach to ourselves. This was perhaps the most leisurely, spring break-like morning of the trip. We hadn’t decided if we would base camp there or go on to another site, so for the time being, we all just enjoyed the sun and the shelter from the western wind, which hissed through the treetops, but left us mostly untouched. 

Perhaps we were lulled into a sense of ease, so when we launched in the early afternoon for a short, five-mile paddle to Beach Hammock, we were less mentally prepared for what should have been a simple paddle, but turned very challenging when that northwest wind turned out to be right out of the west, right in our face. The first challenge was keeping the group close enough to the beach and not getting blown-out to sea. Less experienced paddlers seldom have a sense of how much easier it is to find even just a little windbreak close to shore, and they tend to not notice how much they’re getting pushed, so I was continually trying to get us pointed-in toward shore, and at times, we moved toward it glacially, almost 

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As a rule of thumb, average paddlers probably paddle anywhere between 2-4 knots, probably on the low side of that if they don’t have much experience, and especially so as the group size increases. And, as a rule of thumb, every ten knots of wind in your face, slows you down one knot. If you add to that the psychological factor of realizing that you’re on a treadmill, making little forward progress, it becomes obvious why many of us decide to just take a day off when the winds pick-up. When we arrived in camp later on, I checked the nearest buoy, and the wind registered at 24 knots, gusting to 30. Probably the really prudent thing would have been to just return to the campsite we’d left, but we proceeded, intent on our destination, still hoping that the following day we would head-up the Bull River and circumnavigate Little Tybee Island. (Little Tybee is considerably larger than Tybee Island and encompasses several hammocks or islands, all connected at low tide by marsh and sandbars). 

Of course, the longer we took, the more the tide went-out, and by the time we neared Beach Hammock, we ended-up dragging kayaks through vast shallows where we couldn’t sink our blades deeply enough to propel ourselves forward. Add to that a long carry as the sun set to get our boats above the high tide line, and we were all ready for a quick dinner and sleep.

The wind howled through the night and the next day looked no better. We decided to head back to Myrtle Island, but not wanting to merely retrace our route, we decided to explore the marsh. It’s worth pointing-out that the charts are at best vague about the latest configuration of sand and marsh, and it can be difficult to know where you might get through. We had all day though, so we just followed twisting tidal creeks, trusting that we might either find a way out to open ocean or inland to Tybee Creek.

Long story short: we didn’t do either of those. We paddled about five miles into the marsh, until well after high tide, and then worried that we might run out of water and decided to head back out, which brought us almost back to Beach Hammock, where we’d started the day, after about ten nautical miles of paddling. We saw lots of dolphins up there though, and people seemed happy about that. 

They weren’t happy though, as we neared the mouth of this creek and the twisting channels leading through piled sandbanks appeared to dead-end, as if the water had all drained-out, leaving us landlocked. At that point, we’d put-off lunch, wanting to savor getting out to the open ocean, and we were all a bit drained. One of the student leaders got out of his kayak and took a look at what would have been maybe a quarter-mile carry over the dunes. But there was still current flowing out toward Wassaw Sound, so I followed it and soon arrived at open water. From there it was only about five more miles to the campsite on Myrtle Island, where we later arrived at a familiar campsite with plenty of daylight. 

They were a resilient group though, and by dinner seemed to have recharged, perhaps even buoyed by having come through another difficult day together. I told them we’d paddled fifteen nautical miles – an impressive day, especially for new paddlers – and this may have charged them-up even more, to realize that they were overcoming circumstances that would have been difficult for anyone.

As I understood the goals of this trip, they lay somewhere between kicking-back on a beach for spring break and having the sort of adventures that outing clubs seek. I think we did both. For the students, I think these were some long paddling days, and I felt a bit bad about it, feeling the need to explain that sea kayaking isn’t always so difficult. But I don’t think they just wanted to sit on the beach all day either. 

For me, the most ordeal-like aspect of it is being attuned to what the students are going through. Sure, I was tired, but I have to admit that there’s something I really love about long, difficult days, and you can’t really dig for that hidden inner strength if you don’t push things a bit sometimes. You know you’ll get through it, and you know that at the end of the day, that cup of tea in camp is going to be that much more satisfying.

Lunch on Cumberland Island

I met John at the ramp. The previous evening, he'd bought a new-to-him Cetus and I'd suggested we try it out on a trip to Cumberland Island. With spring tides approaching, the max ebb out of the St Marys River was predicted to reach over three knots, so we had a bit of a push as we headed out the river.

We had a bit of wind opposing that current as well. Here's John, grateful to be on land once again. No, actually this is John extricating himself from some Cumberland Island mud. We made our way around the south end of the island and while the tide turned, ate our lunch on the beach overlooking the entrance to Cumberland Sound. As always, there were a few boats to watch- a Coast Guard patrol boat, the usual excursion boats from Fernandina Beach, and a few recreational fishermen. We watched a guy anchored just off shore take about ten minutes to land a small shark.

 We paddled around to the jetty and had a look. Here you get a good sense of how much the jetty shelters the entrance to the sound.

The air was warm. The water was also warm. A good beach day. 

We headed back around the south end and crossed back over to the river entrance. Instead of the usual trip back up the St Marys, we thought we'd check-out the Jolly River instead, mostly confident that I could find the cut through the marsh across from St Marys.

We had plenty of help from the current, and the wind in the mid-teens with gusts was mostly at our back, but getting back was still a bit of work.

After one wrong attempt, I found the path through the marsh and we made our way back into St Marys Harbor.

I've started a few blog posts that got into how things are going for us here in Georgia, but I'd rather just write about trips like this. We've had plenty of good paddling, including surf sessions at least once a week. It's been good.

But we'll be heading back to Maine in a couple of weeks. We have a busy schedule in June that includes The Maine Canoe Symposium, followed by an L5 Instructor Development Workshop. We'll be living and working at Old Quarry Ocean Adventures, as well as guiding & teaching a few trips and classes for Pinniped Kayak. My guidebook, AMC's Best Sea Kayaking in New England (see ordering info in sidebar) is still in the editing process, but it's getting close- it should be out in July. Through Sea, Surf & SUP I'm scheduled to assistant-coach an Ocean Camp at Knubble Bay with John Carmody, followed by a week-long Downeast Training Journey (Frenchman Bay to West Quoddy Head) with Nate Hanson.  After assistant-coaching at the Bay of Fundy Sea Kayak Symposium in Nova Scotia, our plan is to return to St. Marys to guide trips in October & November.

We're getting some dates arranged for a few more summer trips and classes, which I'll post here and send in a newsletter soon. Maybe I'll see you on the water soon!

Horsin' Around on Cumberland Island

Nate arrived mid-day Thursday, fresh from an Instructor Development Workshop in Charleston. We were already packed for an overnight trip out to Cumberland Island, but a quick look at the weather radar changed our minds.

Instead, we drove to Fernandina Beach and spent the late afternoon hours getting a few nice rides and plenty of thrashing in the steep, close-spaced surf, stopping only when the clouds darkened and lightning forked across the sky.

But we still wanted to get out to Cumberland Island, so on Friday morning we rode the tide out the St Marys River and went to the southern end.

Our scheduled trips to the island focus on visiting historic sites, but this trip evolved casually: a break on a beach, and a slow meander along the shore until we saw horses and let the current take us up a creek, beneath the noses of a small herd. They were muddy, some with legs coated like thigh-high boots, and regarded us with mild curiosity. We sat and watched for awhile. Of course, most of us have seen plenty of horses, but we tell ourselves these are wild horses, and it does feel different somehow- some element of unpredictability that makes it feel somehow special. And there's something about paddling past a group of wild horses that makes it feel that you're having a quintessential Cumberland Island experience.

We continued around the south end of the island and ate lunch beside the jetty. The waves on the outside were fairly small. We investigated a some turbulent water over a sandbar and crossed over the sound to Fort Clinch.

We'd had a good bit of wind at our back as we'd gone down the river with the last of the ebbing current. Now we were heading back against a stronger wind with the last of the flooding current. But we had taken our time, and during that last stretch- the long, wide mouth of the St Marys River, the wind and current turned against us. And it began to rain. Hard.

But we made it to a creek shortcut, and finished the trip on a high note, winding through the tall grass, soaked with warm, fresh rainwater, a bit worn-out.

Sea Camp, Cumberland Island

We sat in the sand at the top of the beach, staring out toward the sea, where crests of breaking waves formed white horizontal bands blending into the fog above. Behind us, dunes heaped inland, while to the north and south, the beach stretched for a hundred yards or so before disappearing into the fog. We each had our books, but sometimes just looked up and stared, not expecting anything really, but savoring the isolation.

We’d watched a group hike past, carrying backpacks, and a few beachcombers following the wrack line, heads bowed, but it felt like we were on our own island of sand and that just about anything might emerge from the fog. And then a dark shape appeared down at the water’s edge, finally morphing into three horses. As they neared, we could see that one was smaller: a foal on tall, spindly legs, accompanied by a pair of larger horses. They paused near us, gazing for what seemed a long moment, and continued walking down the beach.

We were at Sea Camp Beach on Cumberland Island, near the campground where we’d camped the previous night. As the crow flies, we were only about five miles from our home in St Marys, but it took a lot to get here.

We were fortunate to have a campground reservation, and managed to get away from work for a couple of days- which seemed in doubt when a large group expressed interest in a trip and then finally changed their mind.

We’d launched in St Marys and caught the outgoing current for the first three miles, arriving at Sea Camp dock in a little over two hours. We unpacked our boats and stashed them behind the ranger station before carting our gear the half-mile to our site.

The campsites at Sea Camp are cleared from an understory of palmettoes beneath a canopy of massive live oak branches, twisting circuitous routes toward the sunlight. Ours was backed against the dunes, beyond which rose the constant white roar of the sea- probably another quarter-mile distant. 

With a limit of 60 campers there at any time, and frequent groups, some campsites remain empty, and the dense palmettoes separate the sites enough that you’re in your own world. The feeling is quiet, subdued like the light that filters down through the canopy.
 



















You get some picnic tables, a food storage cage atop a raccoon-resistant post, and not far away are bathrooms with cold showers, electricity and a compost bin. It isn’t easy kayak camping, with the long haul from the water, but once there, the campsite feels like a deluxe suite.

If it weren’t for the tide, I probably would have opted to head back earlier, taking the questionable stress-abatement approach of trying to get to more work done. Instead, we were on the tide’s schedule and it made more sense to spend a few hours sitting on the beach in the fog.

After the horses disappeared, we kept watching, as though waiting for the next surprise, but nothing came. Finally, we picked-up the shells we’d found, packed-up our books and snacks, and walked back across the island to our kayaks.

thanks to Rebecca Daugherty for most of these photos

Little Talbot Island

We got off the Interstate north of Jacksonville and meandered - along with the flow of shipping containers riding the backs of semi trucks - toward the sea, the nearby skyline dominated by a pair of massive, narrow-waisted concrete cylinders- cooling towers for a coal plant that supplies power to the city just across the river. Other than the dense cumulus overflowing from the stacks, the sky was mostly clear and blue, a perfect Saturday morning. Rebecca and I were on our way to a Meetup.

The road followed the St. Johns River, finally turning north just near the end, and here we turned-off at Huguenot Park, a large city park occupying the north shore of the river’s inlet. Here, a jetty extends far into the sea, providing a straight, deep channel for all manner of ships, including the Navy fleet just across the river. We knew we were in the right place when we saw a kayak atop a car, and a moment later, someone waving to us.

We got our boats and gear together on a beach beside a large tidal lagoon, and after meeting everyone, headed upstream on the rising tide. There were four others, all guys, probably my age or older, and they all seemed to know each other pretty well. This would be the first (and shortest) of 8 “day” trips ranging from 13 to 77 miles, and in addition to acquiring some local knowledge, we hoped to meet a few other paddlers.

As we followed the turns of Myrtle Creek, we talked about favorite places to paddle and learned a bit about our companions. One had paddled the east coast of Australia. Another was training for the upcoming Everglades Challenge, a 300 or so mile endurance race. He shot out ahead of the group and stayed there for the rest of the trip.

The creek narrowed, and after a bridge, began to oxbow into tight twists and turns through a salt marsh. On our right was Little Talbot Island. The plan, if conditions permitted, was to paddle around Little Talbot, and it looked like that’s what we would do. Andy, the trip’s planner, had gauged the tide well, and we were soon propelled northward by outgoing current in the widening creek. At the creek mouth, we took a break on a sand spit. Rebecca and I had been here on a couple of previous explorations; it was beginning to feel like we were getting the lay of the land.

--> After lunch we headed out around the north end of Little Talbot, propelled by outgoing current. At the mouth, the current hits the incoming swell, creating a an area where waves steepen. We’d taken Cody here to get a taste of surf, but now we moved through it and soon enough the rough water gave way to calm seas. The group was a bit spread-out by now, and the ones in front seemed to be making a beeline for the south end, far offshore. Seeming to read my mind, Andy suggested that the scenery was nice closer to shore and we began moving that way.

We mostly paddled just outside of the surf zone, and since no protocol about catching an occasional wave had been established… well, I caught a wave and rode it in. The wave crumbled and I turned and bongo-slid sideways in the foam pile most of the way to the beach- a fun ride. As I turned back toward the open ocean, I saw an upside-down kayak, and a rescue in progress. I bounced through a few waves on my way out and when I got there, clipped-in and towed the rescue to deeper water, out of the surf zone.

We stayed in deeper water for the remaining miles, until we found our way back in through Fort George Inlet. We paddled against the outgoing current for a short distance and saw someone familiar on the bridge- the racer-in-training who had disappeared ahead of us while the rescue was in progress. Soon we made it back to the beach where we had launched- still early afternoon, and Rebecca and I explored a bit more in the car before meandering home.

Wild Horses

Note: the saga of Sea Kayak Stonington continues... now in Saint Marys, Georgia - see previous post for details.

It was quiet at Knuckleheads, and by the looks of town, it would remain that way for awhile. I wanted to get out for a paddle, so I erased the day’s trips from the white board and penned-in some for the following day, updating the weather while I was at it. It looked like it would get windy for the rest of the week; we’d be lucky to get out paddling, let alone get any customers- all the more reason to get out for a paddle before the thunderstorms forecast for the afternoon arrived.
     I was almost out the door, but got pulled into business conversations: the upcoming fishing tournament, and even sooner- the Mardi Gras celebration, which would channel hundreds of people toward Knuckleheads and our trailer of kayaks beside the boat ramp. Finally I pulled away. I needed to go paddling, not only for my own pleasure and peace of mind, but because I would soon be guiding people on this route, and needed to understand it better. Rationalization? Maybe a little, but true.

     Back at home there were company emails and website to-dos, and even some gallery hassles with the credit card processor- the gallery was still costing me money and taking my time. We finally got on the road, but I was gritting my teeth.

An hour later, at the boat ramp in Fernandina Beach, the morning had turned to afternoon, and those scattered thunderstorms looked like they might be scattered on top of us. It began to rain as we prepared our kayaks on the beach, and we sat in the car, checking our iPhones to gauge the threat, wondering if the brighter patches on the radar might be heavy rain or thunderheads. We decided to get on the water and take it from there.
      A couple of tugboats juggled some barges with a crane and other machinery around the mouth of the Amelia River, and behind us, back in Fernandina Beach, the paper mill let-off a blast of steam, and we paused to make sure it wasn’t thunder. You have to give the town credit for turning itself into an upscale tourist destination when these massive paper mills line a long stretch of the river. Maybe some industry around is just part of the charm, even when you’re downwind. Stonington has the stink of bait, and some claim to like it.
     We let the current help us out of the Amelia and into Cumberland Island Sound, where the Saint Marys River joins the others and they all meet the ocean. The ebbing current was increasing, so we lined-up some markers and followed a range across, increasing our ferry angle toward the middle, finally letting the current take us a bit as we pointed into a sandy, muddy cove on Cumberland Island and found our way into a small creek. A couple hours after high tide, the creek was quickly draining, with sharp oyster beds blocking part of the entrance, but we wound our way through it, against the current until we paused in the shallow water in a vast, muddy flat.

Ahead, horses grazed in the grassy mudflats where the creek tapered. We approached cautiously- the horses are wild, but we weren’t sure how they might tolerate our presence. One looked up, gazed at us for a long moment, its wet flanks glistening in the rain, and returned to grazing. The spartina- grasses that grow in these tidal flats- was mostly munched-down to mud level, but the horses kept their noses down, constantly munching. We moved a little closer and the creek turned increasingly shallow. The horses tracked our movement, but didn’t seem too concerned.

You hear varying theories on the origins of the horses, but some are probably descended from the herd belonging to British who occupied the island in the early 1700s. When the Spanish attacked Fort Andrews in 1742, they found a corral of horses and reported to have shot them all, but it is surmised that some escaped. Island inhabitants have since released other horses on the island, to improve the breeding stock.

We watched a group of eight horses for awhile as the water beneath us ebbed away. The white one came the closest, but also seemed the most leery of our actions, looking up each time we raised a paddle to push ourselves off the mud. Surprisingly, they were not so graceful in the mud, sinking deeply, but not seeming to mind if it brought them closer to the chomped-down grasses. Finally, we turned and floated out of the creek. 

We went a little further up the shore, pausing at a beach for a break, and on up to the entrance of Beach Creek, where we turned around and caught a strong current back across the sound.