
Publisher: Ropati Hebenstreit sales: (808) 351-2398 Writers: Meg Blaser, Cheance Adair, Harvie Allison, Gaylord Wilcox, Cheryl Skribe, Liko Wallace, Cara Mazzei Photos: Peter Caldwell, Brian Vestyck, Harvie Allison, www.photo-ducos.nc, Jon Brunk Photography: Ropati Hebenstreit Proof reader: Amy Hebenstreit A MAGAZINE FOR PADDLERS BY PADDLERS Mission Statement: to bring the excitement of outrigger paddling to a larger audience. We feel that Pacific Paddler’s hui of supporters, contributors, subscribers and advertisers is helping the sport grow, not only here in Hawaii, but around the world. Thanks for your contribution to the sport.	Enter to win a free subscription to Pacific Paddler - offer ends October 31st, 2010 Weekend warrior Our weekend began with a long journey, which would take us from Redondo Beach to Catalina Island and back, a distance of about 100 miles or so. It was a cold gray day. The mother ship, Born 2B Wild, two escort boats and two OC6 s headed into the channel. The wind picked up a little and the cold water flying off the paddles constantly flicked into my eyes. Keeping the course was taxing as the bow of the canoe dipped into swell after swell. Later the mother ship sped ahead to Cat Harbor Catalina, while the two canoes raced along making changes off the escort boats. Five hours later, the canoes reached Cat Harbor. The waiting mother ship’s anchor was jammed. Exhausted from paddling 39 miles we had to wrestle the monster anchor on deck and replace the heavy anchor chain with a nylon line. Selecting the strongest guys, which luckily I wasn’t, the skippers directed them as they heaved and strained. The rest of us shouted our two cents. With the job done, the sun settled orange, then red. We enjoyed a delicious salmon dinner cooked by chefs Jane Crayton and Tammy Ellet. Skipper Jerry Marcil asked me if I cared for some Aleeve, I answered, “No thanks. I don’t take pills.” But I asked, “Do you have a medication called, “Patrone?” With that, he returned with a large bottle. Our spirits soared. The tired and the sick were miraculously healed. Though the ship was in calm waters, it was rocking. We didn’t last long. Like rockets we flew high, exploded and faded with a whimper. 9:00 a.m. we were up and paddling. The backside of Catalina is seldom visited by people, except for fishermen. The rock formations and steep cliffs are incredibly captivating. Water glimmered in stunning fluorescent electric blue. It was so unnaturally beautiful we were mesmerized. We passed an erect vertical rock rising out of the ocean. The women giggled as I steered our canoe as close as possible to it. Twenty-two miles later, we pulled into Avalon; and made our way to Coyote Joe’s. As I walked in, my bartender friend Rene said, “You’ve already broken two rules. No bare feet and no wet shorts.” He looked at my customers and said, “Sit down and hide your feet under the table.” I answered, “We’ll have a beer.” Three hours later, Rene was happy and so were we. As we were leaving, Skippers Jerry and Alvro showed up. Of course, they ordered a beer. And it all started again. Whew. Like drunken sailors returning to ship we knew there was work to be done. After cleaning up, we partied like troopers till we had enough. “Tomorrow we paddle home 39 miles.” I thought, “Again?” Darkness closed in, the wind picked up. Boats banged together, out of rhythm and disorganized. The big ship pitched and slowly rolled, then jerked wildly, awakening me in the dark. It was a fitful sleep. Morning couldn’t come soon enough. Staggering, rubbing our eyes, 6:00 a.m. came early. My crew paddled ahead unescorted. Running with small swells we were subdued. It was very soothing. In a mantra, the stroker broke the stillness and called the changes. In silence we sensed water rushing by. Everyone was lost in eternity. Unable to see through the morning haze, I steered by the shadow of the iako across the ama to keep my course. The escort arrived. I turned downwind and picked up speed with a fresh crew. Replacing me, Josh Crayton soon began to smile. They were picking up swells. They weren’t big ones, but they were coming at us one after the other, some doubling up. Our motor revved higher and higher. We started cheering. Suddenly they dropped in on one memorable wave. Surfing wildly, stroker Steve Cadwell did a head-stand; others laid back and threw their legs skyward in a V. Incredibly the wind blew us directly toward our harbor. Home at last, we hauled the heavy canoes up an 8-foot ramp, our bodies suffering one last indignity. That night, I closed my eyes, not to stir again for hours. The weekend warrior was finally done. Mahalo, Al For more stories and insights from Al Ching visit his website, mudbrookracingpaddles.com	Discount Coupons Jimmy Buffett's

Publisher: Ropati Hebenstreit
sales: (808) 351-2398

Writers: Meg Blaser, Cheance Adair, Harvie Allison, Gaylord Wilcox, Cheryl Skribe, Liko Wallace, Cara Mazzei

Photos: Peter Caldwell, Brian Vestyck, Harvie Allison, www.photo-ducos.nc, Jon Brunk Photography: Ropati Hebenstreit

Proof reader: Amy Hebenstreit

A MAGAZINE
FOR PADDLERS
BY PADDLERS
Mission Statement: to bring the excitement of outrigger paddling to a larger audience. We feel that Pacific Paddler’s hui of supporters, contributors, subscribers and advertisers is helping the sport grow, not only here in Hawaii, but around the world. Thanks for your contribution to the sport.

Enter to win a free subscription to Pacific Paddler - offer ends October 31st, 2010

Weekend warrior

Our weekend began with a long journey, which would take us from Redondo Beach to Catalina Island and back, a distance of about 100 miles or so. It was a cold gray day. The mother ship, Born 2B Wild, two escort boats and two OC6 s headed into the channel. The wind picked up a little and the cold water flying off the paddles constantly flicked into my eyes. Keeping the course was taxing as the bow of the canoe dipped into swell after swell. Later the mother ship sped ahead to Cat Harbor Catalina, while the two canoes raced along making changes off the escort boats.

Five hours later, the canoes reached Cat Harbor. The waiting mother ship’s anchor was jammed. Exhausted from paddling 39 miles we had to wrestle the monster anchor on deck and replace the heavy anchor chain with a nylon line. Selecting the strongest guys, which luckily I wasn’t, the skippers directed them as they heaved and strained. The rest of us shouted our two cents.
With the job done, the sun settled orange, then red. We enjoyed a delicious salmon dinner cooked by chefs Jane Crayton and Tammy Ellet.

Skipper Jerry Marcil asked me if I cared for some Aleeve, I answered, “No thanks. I don’t take pills.” But I asked, “Do you have a medication called, “Patrone?” With that, he returned with a large bottle. Our spirits soared. The tired and the sick were miraculously healed. Though the ship was in calm waters, it was rocking. We didn’t last long. Like rockets we flew high, exploded and faded with a whimper.

9:00 a.m. we were up and paddling. The backside of Catalina is seldom visited by people, except for fishermen. The rock formations and steep cliffs are incredibly captivating. Water glimmered in stunning fluorescent electric blue. It was so unnaturally beautiful we were mesmerized. We passed an erect vertical rock rising out of the ocean. The women giggled as I steered our canoe as close as possible to it.

Twenty-two miles later, we pulled into Avalon; and made our way to Coyote Joe’s. As I walked in, my bartender friend Rene said, “You’ve already broken two rules. No bare feet and no wet shorts.” He looked at my customers and said, “Sit down and hide your feet under the table.” I answered, “We’ll have a beer.” Three hours later, Rene was happy and so were we. As we were leaving, Skippers Jerry and Alvro showed up. Of course, they ordered a beer. And it all started again. Whew.
Like drunken sailors returning to ship we knew there was work to be done. After cleaning up, we partied like troopers till we had enough. “Tomorrow we paddle home 39 miles.” I thought, “Again?” Darkness closed in, the wind picked up. Boats banged together, out of rhythm and disorganized. The big ship pitched and slowly rolled, then jerked wildly, awakening me in the dark. It was a fitful sleep. Morning couldn’t come soon enough. Staggering, rubbing our eyes, 6:00 a.m. came early. My crew paddled ahead unescorted. Running with small swells we were subdued. It was very soothing. In a mantra, the stroker broke the stillness and called the changes. In silence we sensed water rushing by. Everyone was lost in eternity.

Unable to see through the morning haze, I steered by the shadow of the iako across the ama to keep my course. The escort arrived. I turned downwind and picked up speed with a fresh crew. Replacing me, Josh Crayton soon began to smile. They were picking up swells. They weren’t big ones, but they were coming at us one after the other, some doubling up. Our motor revved higher and higher. We started cheering. Suddenly they dropped in on one memorable wave. Surfing wildly, stroker Steve Cadwell did a head-stand; others laid back and threw their legs skyward in a V. Incredibly the wind blew us directly toward our harbor. Home at last, we hauled the heavy canoes up an 8-foot ramp, our bodies suffering one last indignity. That night, I closed my eyes, not to stir again for hours. The weekend warrior was finally done.
Mahalo, Al
For more stories and insights from Al Ching visit his website, mudbrookracingpaddles.com

Discount Coupons
Jimmy Buffett's