Kayaking in the Winter
As you glide down the channel, the first things you notice are the big sea lions lazing on the docks or sterns of boats. Some may swim alongside for a time before they find more interesting pursuits. They argue about who gets to come up and bask in the sun and dry their glistening fur coats.
At the gas dock, a great big cruiser, the Aquila, is tied up – about 180 feet. It’s registered at Douglas on the Isle of Man. It’s here for charter during the gatherings of the ultra rich for the Super Bowl and Oscars.
On the bare tree just past the fuel dock are the big nests of about a hundred cormorants. Some are drying their wings in a skeletal look straight from Hades.
Further along are the biggest yachts in boat slips, and at the very end is the Admiral XL. It often flies a hybrid US/Israeli flag. I had always thought it was some retired admiral who made a lot of money in defense contracting after his military career. It’s just another big boat for charter.
Perched on the rocks at water’s edge are the sharp beaked spear fisherman – the egrets and herons. Some are stately great blue herons who look as if they are above all the cares of the world and occasionally take off in a slow flapping majestic flight to the other side of the channel where there may be better pickings. At times, there is a little blue heron or a green heron with a nice fishing perch – always solo. The white egrets are more noumerous and gregarious using every third rock in their efforts to keep socially distanced; some are snowy egrets with their incongruous bright yellow feet, and the much bigger ones are the great white egrets.
In the water, the red starfish stand out clinging to the top and sides of the rocks and slowly grazing for whatever tasty mollusks they latch on and consume. Occasionally when the water is crystalline, a pink or even purple one can be seen.
There is an ancient lock that fills and empties the old Venice canals into the ocean. It is timed to the high and low tides and can give you a little sense of riding the rapids for a short spurt. The egrets stand sentinel as this is their prime fishing spot.
Next are the sand bars; at low tide, this is like New York City at rush hour. The godwits and willets are busy catching worms and other tasty goodies in the sand. The terns are lined up like soldiers with little black caps in a tight formation, they all point their beaks in the same direction. The gulls are helter-skelter, arguing with each other about who gets those tasty fish innards. The little sandpipers scurry about in tight flocks and take off together in a mass panic at some imagined or real provocation. Fulmars stand stolidly among all this commotion.
Out in the channel, the grebes, pelicans and the cormorants are diving and surfacing, often with little fish in their mouths. The little eared grebes paddle about and dive. The prehistoric looking pelicans come dive bombing down from their heights with a mighty splash. They fly in naval formations along the coast and out to sea. The big black and white tuxedoed western grebes are scarcer now, but so beautiful as they take off in flight or paddle about, looking to dive on an unsuspecting fish. The little fish in shifty schools dodge peril from predators above and below to their daily survival.
At the very end of the jetty, black turnstones and black oystercatchers with their flashy red lipsticked bills share the space and bounty off the rocks. I wonder why each bird species has chosen a different part of the channel for their preferred habitat.
As I turn the corner; the long broad beach stretches out towards Santa Monica and the mountains beyond – lots of joggers along the early morning sand, dogs charging into the surf for a ball or a stick or down the beach to chase the gulls. Surfers mostly congregate towards the bigger waves off the Venice pier. Hardy swimmers braving the cold gather closer to the Marina jetty to avoid the big surf. There is often a tide rip pulsing out about halfway in between. The dolphins gather in pods, cruising along the beach looking for fish to eat; today, one surfaced, to our mutual surprise, just three feet in front of me. Some winter days, big flocks of scoters gather; they take off in mass flights flashing black and white when you get too close for their comfort zones.
Coming back down the channel, the San Bernardino Mountains are capped with snow. The fishing boats head out to sea. A few others also brave the morning’s chill on their array of paddle boards, kayaks and outriggers. My hands and feet are numb by now, but my heart and spirits are lifted in the purest joy.