Carol Newman Cronin's Blog, page 27

Ferry Ride Surprise Rescue

A few weeks ago, we went on a very fun ferry ride to celebrate Ferry to Cooperation Island. Thanks to the efforts of the Jamestown-Newport Ferry Company, 12 people left the dock on Katherine for a special tour of Narragansett Bay. First we headed south down East Passage and, just before Horsehead, saw some of the white-striped rocks that Courtney (a Chesapeake native) spots on her way into Brenton Island’s main harbor. Next, we waved out to sea toward where Brenton Island should be. (My favorite passenger swore she saw the island.) And then we headed into Newport Harbor, ending up right at the docks where the fictional ferry to Cooperation Island lands. Along the way, I was able to explain to any passenger who cared how the ferry we were onboard was different from the Homer S. Morgan.

A cruise in late September was an excellent way to share details about Ferry to Cooperation Island—and we got to rescue a fellow sailor!

But the most memorable (and well-captured) part of our cruise was completely unplanned. As we were crossing the Bay again to return to Jamestown, sun setting and southwest wind still strong, Paul (who’d signed on as official bookseller for the evening) and Captain Burt spotted a Laser drifting downwind with the sail blowing like a flag. When the sailor was asked if he needed help, he said he’d already tried to reattach the sail to the boom but couldn’t do it without capsizing. With Paul directing, the Laser was safely brought alongside the ferry long enough to retie the knot that had come undone. Then “Chad” sailed off toward the harbor again, taking time for a wave and a thank you to his unexpected rescuers. (Thanks to Jane Gilgun for capturing the entire rescue on video.)

Angel in the details

Though there’s a long list of potential seamanship lessons here, I’m going to focus instead on the writing lesson I learned (again) about creating characters who are true to life: chosen well, one key detail is the best way to establish personality. I’m definitely jumping to conclusions about Chad, but it seemed like he was just waiting to be rescued rather than taking any initiative to find his own way to safety. And here’s why I was so convinced of that: despite the danger of drifting downwind as darkness fell, he never shut off the music playing through a bluetooth speaker in his cockpit.

(He also didn’t seem at all concerned about the knot-tying skills of a bunch of random ferry passengers, but that’s another topic altogether.)

Watch the video, and then let me know if you jump to the same conclusion I did (or would focus on a different detail). Meanwhile, thanks to the Jamestown-Newport ferry for a very fun evening, and I’ll let you know when we get another chance to join them for a ferry ride!

Competitive Cruising

Only days before the world shut down last March, Paul purchased another Archambault 31. Even as I teased him about his French girlfriend, I was already looking forward to cruising together again—something we’d really enjoyed on the previous boat.

A month later, when all my regattas had been cancelled, I realized that cruising would be the best sailing escape this year.

Thanks to patience and perserverence, Paul’s new (to him) boat was finally delivered from La Rochelle, France to Portland, Maine, in late June. After adding a few key pieces of equipment for singlehanding, he sailed (and motored) back to Rhode Island. Four days onboard was all he needed to remember how nicely he’d rigged the last boat for shorthanded sailing, and he came home with a long list of projects to bring this newer boat up to par. But with summer already well underway, he quickly prioritized that list and rushed to get the essential jobs checked off before heading back Down East again, to meet up with another shorthanded sailor for a week of trekking.

Ten days later, I drove to Blue Hill and joined the fun.

Side by side play

Our friends Liz Baylis and Todd Hedin had already made it to Mount Desert Island on their Sabre 425, and after several texts and emails we anchored side by side on my very first night aboard. That set the pattern for almost two weeks of “buddy cruising,” or what on the windier days Liz laughingly called “competitive cruising” (we are all racers at heart, after all). 

The key to happily cruising in tandem turns out to be the same as holding together any long-term team: well-aligned daily priorities. The four of us are all early risers, and we all like to get some exercise every day—including this year’s Pushup Challenge. So we’d finalize our plans for the day over breakfast and coffee—long after the lobstermen had gotten underway, but well before most other cruisers had even poked heads out of the companionway. The icing on the cake each day was an afternoon sail (or motor) to another well-protected harbor. 

The two boats might not seem like a very good match; the Archambault 31 is a racer-cruiser with a minimalist approach to creature comforts, and it’s faster on most points of sail. But the Sabre 425 motors faster… so Liz and Todd often finished first.

Quantity time

While underway, Paul and I talked through ideas that would help make his new boat even better for cruising. (You’ll be able to watch him complete several of these projects over the winter, if you subscribe to his In and Out of the Boat Shop show.) We also replayed previous cruises, with my parents or on our own, while savoring the many pleasures of gunkholing Down East even more than usual—including the safety of socializing within our “bubble” each evening. So many friends and family could only wish for an equally lovely escape this year… 

Once the anchor was set, we’d catch up on email and maybe have a bracing swim before paddling over to join Liz and Todd for dinner around their varnished cockpit table—a much more luxurious setting and meal than we would’ve had on our own. We’d talk about where to go the next day (or whether we should just stay put). And while I don’t remember solving any of the world’s problems, discussing the evergreen challenges of wind and currents and pointing ability did seem to put everything else into its proper perspective. After dinner, we’d paddle back to Paul’s boat, navigating the short distance by the stars. 

With almost no other travel planned for the rest of the year, and clients gone silent for the summer, there was no need to rush home to an empty desk—so ten days grew to amost two weeks before I managed to tear myself away. I even suggested we do a similar buddy cruise again next year—though I’m hoping that by 2021, competitive cruising will have to be crammed in between regattas once again. 

Sailing variety 

One of the great pleasures of our sport is the range of options it offers. While one-design racing might not seem to have much in common with coastal cruising, this year’s competitive cruising provided a way to check most of my summer fun boxes. Cooperation was the first priority, but we still kept track of who’d arrived first at each destination. And even on the afternoons we followed Liz and Todd into harbor, I still felt like a winner when we clinked cocktail glasses that evening.

I miss my “normal” summer life of regattas, and I miss my Snipe family. But I feel so lucky to have stored so much visual and mental stimulation into my memory banks, without spreading anything but good cheer. I think it will be enough to get me through the winter, while Paul’s off working on his French girlfriend… getting her ready for next year’s adventures, whatever those might turn out to be.

Did you manage a summer escape? Share it in the comments below, or send me an email. Thanks for reading!

Coastal Fiction Book Club: You’re invited!

Like books and boats? Sure you do, or you wouldn’t be reading this. Well, here’s another way you can dig into coastal fiction; join our book group on Facebook!

Every week, we post at least one new piece of coastal fiction we’ve enjoyed. Recent recommendations include Swallows and Amazons by Arthur Ransome, The Widow’s War by Sally Cabot Gunning, and Spoonhandle by Ruth Moore. We’ve even let a few non-fiction favorites sneak into the feed: Isaac’s Storm by Erik Larson, and The Boat Who Wouldn’t Float by Farley Mowat. Nothing too heavy or dark… but plenty of meaty characters to befriend.

Down the road, we might even schedule a few virtual discussions—or a shared group read. It’s a great way to bump up your TBR list, and meet readers who share a common love of shoreline settings and happy endings.

Here’s the link again. And if you’re interested in talking about coastal fiction on a different platform, drop me an email. I can’t wait to discover more great examples of coastal fiction!

Around the Buoy: Leading an Interesting Life

A few weeks ago, I was a guest on Around the Buoy, a Newport-based podcast about life on the water co-hosted by Carter Richardson and Tyler Fields. Carter is a boatwright (and self-declared “huge fan of the Olympics”), and Tyler is also a wooden boat fanatic and photographer. Thanks to their dry wit, we had plenty of laughs and some great banter—but they’d also done their homework. I was surprised when their introduction and title both referenced my memory of a conversation with my novelist grandmother!

Our free-range discussion covers Olympic memories (including specifics from The No Good, Very Bad Windiest Day), what inspired the Homer S. Morgan (the ferry that runs to Cooperation Island), and the challenges of marketing coastal fiction in 2020. Listen now and let me know in the comments (or by email) what you think! And make sure to tag Around the Buoy as a favorite, wherever you get your podcasts.

PS Around the Buoy just signed on a new sponsor, Regatta Craft Mixers, so I might have to whip up a fresh recipe for Cooperation Punch…

Ferry Boats: Reality Meets Imagination

Next Wednesday evening, along with a few fans, I’m celebrating the almost-3-month publishing anniversary of Ferry to Cooperation Island by going for a real ferry ride! The Jamestown to Newport Ferry is hosting an exclusive cruise onboard Katherine, the boat that originally inspired the novel’s own ferry. It’s really exciting to have an in-person event, especially one that combines a sunset cocktail cruise with a reminder of where this all started.

So today, I’ll try to explain how Brenton Island’s own quirky ferry boat developed out of this actual vessel—especially since it shows how my imagination warps what I see around me to fit a story.

The Katherine is part of the Jamestown-Newport Ferry company’s fleet.

When I first started writing this book, all I had was a main character: a curmudgeonly ferry captain who valued his privacy. The very first scene I wrote took place underway, onboard the ferry in a private wheelhouse. (Ever been on a small ferry with a bulkhead between passengers and captain? Me neither.) The boat was named the Homer S. Morgan, but that’s about all I knew about his vessel.

Next, I wrote the scene that would eventually be hammered and kneaded and edited into chapter two; Courtney, the outsider who takes over as ferry captain when James is fired, navigates into Brenton Island Harbor for the very first time. The Homer had twin diesels, I realized. (In reality, a boat like the Katherine would only have one engine.) Another ferry-fact that failed to line up with my imagination.

I set reality aside, and kept writing.

Research ride

It wasn’t until I had a solid story line that I dared set foot on the Katherine again, armed with the flimsy excuse of a midday meeting in Newport. During the 20-minute trip across the Bay, I took surreptitious photos of seemingly insignificant details: lifejacket stowage and signage. Seating layout and cushioning. How the electronics (two VHFs, I noted) and throttle had been mounted on the counter in front of the wheel—because of course there was no bulkhead between the wheelhouse and the passengers. 

I also listened to the wake’s gurgle, and the rumble and grunt of a single diesel—because of course there was only one engine. 

By the time I stepped ashore, I hid my disappointment from the friendly captain. The only detail that would translate directly to my imaginary ferry was a deckhand who also served drinks.

Back at my desk, I wandered through online photos of other ferry boats, built for maximum carrying capacity rather than beauty. Life is too short to write about an ugly boat—and none of those had a walled-off wheelhouse either. Only a few had two engines. With a sigh, I turned away from ferry-facts once again and went back to writing what I saw inside my head.

Ocean Location

A few scenes later, I finally looked at a chart and realized the imaginary Brenton Island (located where Brenton Tower used to be) was almost four miles outside Narragansett Bay. That made me realize that the Homer S. Morgan would need to dependably navigate across open water on a twice-daily basis—and only a much bigger boat would safely stand up to the standing waves of ebb tide fighting sea breeze. I did another online photo search, upping the size range into the 40-50 foot range—and found the Isle au Haut mail boat, Miss Lizzie.

Miss Lizzie is now part of the Windjammer fleet and runs from Bar Harbor to Winter Harbor.

Though she still didn’t have a walled-off wheelhouse or twin diesels (and she did have a passenger deck on top of the wheelhouse), she was the closest real-life ferry boat I could find to what I’d built inside my head. I dragged her into Photoshop and tweaked her to fit, removing that top deck and pasting in many beautiful impracticalities, like varnished wheelhouse doors. I also renamed her the Homer S. Morgan.

Finally, I had a picture of my imagined ferry boat—which turned out to be quite different from its original inspiration.

Next Wednesday evening, as I step aboard Katherine once again (5:30-7pm, join us!) for our celebration of Ferry to Cooperation Island, I’ll still be searching for details that might also be on the Homer—but I doubt I’ll find too many. I also don’t think we’ll make it all the way out to Brenton Island on our 1.5 hour cruise; this real-life ferry is built for cruises inside the Bay, after all. But who knows—maybe we’ll cross wakes with the Homer S. Morgan as she heads down the Bay back to her island home. It’s later than she usually runs, of course, but never mind—that’s what imaginations are for.

Reserve your tickets

625 Pushups: 5 Life Lessons

It was two years ago when I last put together 5 Life Lessons from winning a Snipe World championship (though 2020 seems to be (too) full of such posts). In early August, when I first took on the 25 pushups for 25 days Facebook challenge to help raise awareness about PTSD, mental illness, and anxiety, I never expected I’d be writing about that—because it didn’t occur to me that a purely physical challenge would teach me so much about my own mental health.

Usually I ignore the various challenges/nominations that roll through my Facebook feed, even when they are attached to a good cause. But this one was impossible to scroll past. First, because it came from my Snipe teammate and good friend Kim Couranz (and I was her very first of 25 nominations). And second because, midway through a regatta-free summer, I was hungry for a new physical challenge.

FYI, It was surprisingly hard to pare this list down to only 5 lessons…. but here goes.

The ocean helps my mental health. Exact scenery, location, and background were all different each day, but only on day 18 was I more than a few hundred yards from salt water—lucky me.We are tougher than we think. Before this challenge, I had never EVER done more than 23 pushups in one go. On day 1, I completed 25—because I didn’t stop when my mind told me “enough.” The next day I was sore, but I did another 25. Day 3 was the hardest—I could barely lift my right arm that evening. But by the afternoon of day 4, my body had recovered enough to manage another full round. For the rest of the challenge, my mind still tried to shut me down around 15 or so—even as I grew stronger. We’re all in this together. As I struggled with who to nominate each day (almost as big a challenge as the pushups themselves), I checked up on other participating friends in a vain attempt to avoid duplicating nominations. Many found much more creative and useful ways to help achieve the overall goal of promoting awareness of PTSD and mental illness; one friend posted links each day to mental health resources (while also doing her pushups off-camera). Another reminded us that mental health is partly chemical: not a weakness, just an imbalance. Which is why simply reaching out to an anxious friend can be a bigger help than we realize.We don’t get a do-over. On too many of the daily videos, I drift out of view of the camera—but I wasn’t about to do another 25 pushups… so I published the original video. It was a daily reminder that we don’t get any of these minutes and hours back, so we’d better make ‘em count.Rest days are critical. I have never, ever repeated the same physical activity for 25 days in a row—and I won’t do it again. The gurus at Hammer Nutrition say “you get stronger on your rest days,” and though I will continue to do pushups I will definitely alternate them with other activities.

My small effort may not make a huge difference in the overall visibility of PTSD and mental illness, but it’s definitely brought home just how many people struggle with life every day—especially now. So, even though the pushup challenge is behind me, I’ll continue to reach out to people to offer a slice of humor and a side of my own unique perspective. With shorter days and (still) only a few regattas to look forward to and plan for, I might even take on another challenge. Because we don’t get these days back—and who knows what else I might learn?

Watch them all in under 5 minutes

If you want to watch all 625 pushups… click on the photo for a spliced-together time lapse (with a surprise at the end!).

Read previous posts about Life Lessons and 5 Tips for Lifelong Fitness

Got an unexpected challenge, or need a fresh perspective? Reach out in the comments below, or send me an email . Thanks for reading!

Book Review: Harry’s Trees

I wish I could remember what tenuous path of book-breadcrumbs led me to pick up a copy of Harry’s Trees, a novel published in 2018 by Jon Cohen that must’ve been a challenge to categorize. It certainly wouldn’t turn up in a search for coastal fiction; the only water that appears either falls from the sky, is collected from a spring, or lies stagnant at the bottom of an abandoned quarry.

And yet I found myself completely lost in this story of a guilt-stricken young widower named Harry who, a year after losing his wife to a random tragedy, stumbles onto an unexpected windfall and blindly flees his soul-crushing job at the US Forest Service in Philadelphia. “Suspended in an awful and unnatural calm, Harry stepped out of his cubicle into the cramped aisle. He turned in a slow 360. He heard something, coming from deep within the endless forest of cubicles. Not the hum of computers and printers but the whisper of leaves. Trees, he thought. Trees. To the forest and the trees.”

His flight brings him to a forest in Pennsylvania’s Endless Mountains. “He had managed this stretch of the Appalachians by computer for over a decade. Of course he would end up here. Treeless words that had crowded his brain for too long—forest resource utilization, sustainable harvest, inventory and analysis, development and evaluation—receded.” They were replaced by “Fire cherry. Pignut hickory. Sagbark hickory… the old familiar names summoning the woodland sanctuary of his childhood, when he climbed high up in the branches of the giant beech in his front yard and imagined the trees going on forever in all directions, and he safely in the center. His shaded escape, the forest he had spent a lifetime trying to reach.”

Nothing less random than an empty gas tank alert determines Harry’s actual exit off the highway, into a particular section of this forest that he’s spent a decade studying on a computer screen. We’ve already met ten year old Oriana and her mother Amanda, so we recognize their house when Harry drives by it, though he only has eyes for the trees.

Oriana and Amanda lost their father/husband in a freak accident on the same day Harry lost his wife, and they’ve also spent the past year overwhelmed by grief. For very different reasons, they each see Harry as a link back to that father/husband. So when he suggests he live in their (illegal) treehouse to perform an official “on-site evaluation” of the trees (Harry’s cover story for wanting to stay and explore), they agree. Toss in a small town with an ancient librarian, a dairy farmer who likes cows better than people, and a money-grubbing realtor—as well as a viral news story that eventually brings Harry’s bully of a brother to town—and soon everyone is propelled toward a very different future.

Sounds crazy, right? And I haven’t even mentioned that the entire plot hinges on Olive the librarian (“a sharp-boned seventy-nine years old”), and the handmade fairy tale she recommends to Oriana. “Another thing Oriana liked about Olive was that she greeted you with a handshake like you were a grown-up, and she let you call her by her first name. ‘That’s what names are for,’ Olive explained. ‘If you don’t use them, they wither and blow away on the western wind.’ Which was yet another thing Oriana liked—Olive talked like a book. …Compared to Olive, other adults spoke in grunts.” 

Oriana is deeply moved by the strange tale, but it’s not until the fable touches other readers that all the jigsaw pieces inevitably fall into place. “What other function do books have, the great ones, but to change the reader? Books to comfort. But most of all, books to disturb you forward.” Disturb you forward: exactly what this quiet novel has done for me.

A warning to other writers: Many rules were broken in these pages. Head-jumping (a quick change in perspective from one character to another) is strictly verboten by the experts, because it makes a reader work way too hard to figure out whose eyes they’re now looking through. Somehow Cohen makes this no-no work, allowing us to pivot quickly from one viewpoint to another—even within the constraints of a single paragraph.  I did have to go back and reread a few sections, and a few were just plain over-written. I also wished I’d learned about that incredible tree house a bit earlier. But those were all just pesky details, insignificant compared to the pleasure of reveling in rich prose that led to a tight, satisfying, ending.

When I was not quite halfway through reading this book, I tried to describe Harry’s Trees to friends. I could see the thought-clouds forming above their heads: “This sounds WAY too strange.” Even after finishing, I wondered how to convey the magic of this story and how it “fell” together, as each character made seemingly logical decisions that eventually jigsawed into a happy but believable future for almost everyone. This review is an attempt at that, as well as an attempt to bring Harry’s Trees more readers—though I doubt it will make much of a dent in either.

We can’t help but bring our own perspectives to what we read, which is why a book that touches our hearts in August might fall flat when we try to reread it the following December. I’m so glad this whimsical yet well-grounded story found me at exactly the right time—even if I don’t remember how I found it. I can’t promise you will love it as much as I did, but if you’re looking for something completely different—and yet, somehow, quite familiar and personal—you’ll find it in the pages of Harry’s Trees.

Have a novel that touched you recently, for reasons you can’t quite explain? Add it to the comments below, or send me an email . Thanks for reading!

Read previous book reviews

A Final Conversation with Harry Anderson

Only days before the world shut down last March, I interviewed Harry Anderson at the retirement home where this legendary sailor spent his final years. Six weeks later, as Seahorse editors were finalizing photos for the June issue and the rest of us were adjusting to life in lockdown, word came in that Harry had crossed the bar—just a few months shy of his 99th birthday. I’m sure he’d nod with twinkling eyes at my immediate takeaway: don’t postpone any opportunity to get out of the house and talk to people.

One hour was not nearly enough, but Harry was well-practiced in sharing his personal perspective on just about every highlight of 20th century sailing. He also told me about just-finalized plans that will likely impact sailing for many years to come. Back at my desk, I filled in any biographical gaps with a close reading of The Strenuous Life of Harry Anderson, a biography by Roger Vaughan (with a foreword from HRH Prince Philip). The result was an article I’m very proud of, and Seahorse has given me permission to share the PDF with all of you. (For their other articles, you’ll have to subscribe.)

The morning Harry died, I went out for a paddle and decided to round a few government marks instead of the usual out-and-back. Even at the time, I smiled to think that I was paddling what sailors call the Harry A—and an hour later when I learned the news, it seemed like he was smiling down at me.

Thanks, Harry, for taking the time to share part of your story, one last time. Thanks also for everything you did (and continue to do) for our sport.

Harry-A-profileDownload

Previous Seahorse profiles: Vince Brun, Dave Perry, and Jud Smith

All Seahorse articles

Draft: Shallow or Deep?

You don’t have to share my passion for both books AND boats to know that the word draft means very different things to authors and sailors. In writing, a draft is a preliminary version; a large collection of words that will definitely need editing before sharing with others. On boats, draft is a fixed number; the depth of water needed to avoid running aground.

The word has many other meanings as well. Merriam-Webster lists 13 different possibilities for the noun alone, touching on such completely unrelated activities as drinking beer, hauling fish, and smoking. (See what kind of rabbit holes I disappear down when I’m drafting?) Like another favorite word, latitude, clarifying the meaning of draft requires context. 

And since clarity is what I’m seeking right now, let’s start with the boating definition—because that’s a simple number.

Matsya’s draft is 3.04 feet. So much more quantifiable than the “depth” of a written draft.



Shallow drafts and shortcuts

Shallow-draft vessels generally don’t sail as fast upwind, but they are more nimble. And the ability to navigate across “thin water” creates options; straying out of the channel to take advantage of a shortcut, for instance. Once in harbor, there will be many more anchoring options.

In writing, a shallow first draft would just skim the surface of what happens; get the basic framework down on “paper,” and fill in the details later. Like that shallow-draft sailboat, it’s the best way to stay nimble about the final destination. After all, why include all those pesky “deep” details that will just have to be cleaned up in a later draft?

Months ago, I promised I would dare to fail with this next book; get the story down first, before diving too deep into each character’s quirks. You can probably already hear my deflated sigh; unfortunately, shallow first drafts just don’t seem to be something a story-parent like me can write. Because shortcuts don’t lead to inspiration.

Imagination vs. efficiency

Right now, I’m dancing around the building blocks of my next WIP. (Yes, it’s a sequel of Ferry to Cooperation Island.) With FERRY’s polished final sheen still fresh in my mind, I want to beeline toward the next novel’s finish line; all those carefully chosen words! All those scenes that line up like breadcrumbs, leading the reader from one chapter to the next! Just the right amount of backstory to enrich the characters, without bogging down the plot line!

Instead, I’m back to puzzling through what happens next, hanging on for the ride as both new and well-known characters take unexpected detours. Hey! I want to tell them; didn’t you read my outline??

Deep drafts

For better or worse, my imagination cannot be bullied or cajoled into efficiency. Creating a deep first draft (or, as I wrote back in 2009, carving out a Rough Draft) is the only way I can figure out what this next story is really all about; all those details that will probably be eliminated later on are what reveal the big picture. The simple act of re-reading a scene I wrote a few months ago can spark an “of course, that’s how it happens” moment, which is the very best part of writing fiction. (And, I admit, I’m absolutely incapable of re-reading a roughed-out scene without making line-edits—even though I know it’s a complete waste of time.)

Renaming this process “deep drafting” does nothing to improve its efficiency, but at least it sounds more professional than “pantsing.” So I’m going to take my new boat metaphor and lash it directly to my writing process. Shallow drafts might be good for sneaking across a sand bar or into a quiet harbor, but deep drafts will make progress even against a strong headwind.

So as I gaze off into the future fog of finishing this next book, desperately searching for a shortcut, I remind myself of what really matters: creating another book I will be equally proud to share. For me at least, that means gathering together way more words than you will ever see, and staying in the channel; the only way I know to make real progress. Fortunately, even though it’s not nearly as much fun as “having written,” and even as I wonder if there’s a more direct route to a safe harbor, I still enjoy this part of the process—way more than drinking beer, hauling fish, or smoking.

Thanks for following along on this writing (and sailing) journey. Got a thought about your own creative process? Share it in the comments below, or email me. I read every single (human-created) word, with gratitude.

Mental and Physical Challenge: SUP Around Beavertail

After what might be my only regatta of the 2020 summer, I found myself craving a new physical challenge. I wanted to be on the water, so I decided to do my longest standup paddleboard adventure yet.

The obvious choice was to head up Narragansett Bay, past my previous northern-most paddle-point of the Jamestown Bridge. But with a southerly forecast and the morning’s flood tide, that would mean paddling downwind and down-current first—never the right option. Instead I decided to paddle south for an hour (or as long as I could stand it), even though that took me out toward open ocean. Then I’d turn around and enjoy the reward of an easier and quicker second leg.

Instead, I paddled all the way around Beavertail State Park! While the distance is only a little longer than I’d planned, achieving that partial “circumnavigation” was so much more mentally satisfying.

Geography, fueling, and float plans

For those of you not familiar with Narragansett Bay, Beavertail light marks the southernmost point of Conanicut Island. It sticks out into the ocean, so there is always swell breaking against the rocks. Not a spot I’d want to be on a paddleboard, solo, most days. But Sunday morning dawned just as forecast: a light southerly, and flat water thanks to two days of offshore breeze and an incoming flood. 

I fueled up a water bottle with my usual regatta-mix of HEED/Sustained Energy, stuck a nocciola Hammer gel in my pocket (as a halfway treat), and wheeled my board down to the dock at the end of our street. Paddling out of the harbor felt routine, but instead of heading out around Dutch Island, I turned south toward open water. Upwind and up-current, my speed was uninspiring. But there was almost no boat traffic, and West Passage was (as expected) pleasantly wave-free. 

I was still planning to paddle upwind for an hour, and then (after enjoying my gel treat) speed back toward home, ably assisted by wind and current. Instead, when I reached a super-secret fishing spot that marked my farthest-south paddling destination to date, I started thinking: what if I rounded Beavertail instead, and paddled home via Mackerel Cove? That would be a lot more satisfying than just an out-and-back.

The right morning

I kept my options open, waiting to see what the waves looked like outside. But as soon as it came into view, I set my sights on the Beavertail gong. Sailors like to round marks, and having a visible goal kept me motivated—even as my speed dropped from uninspiring to a dismal 2.8 mph. Fighting even a light southerly, plus a knot of flood, I wasn’t going to set any speed records. 

The Beavertail gong is much farther offshore than mere inches of paddleboard draft requires, so once I reached the end of the point I turned east—the closest I’ve ever been, or hope to be, to those incredible rocks. People fishing along the shoreline probably thought they were having a lot more fun than I was, but I was already grinning at my achievement—even though I was still a little less than halfway through my adventure.

As soon as I was far enough east to safely take a break, I set my paddle down on the board and knelt down for a rest (and that delicious Hammer gel). Drifting downwind and down-current, my speed was only a little less than I’d been making upwind (with a lot less effort), so I took the time to snap a few photos and enjoy the moment.

The rest of the paddle was long but easy, with plenty of rock-gawking to keep me smiling. It was still early, so even the more crowded side of Conanicut Island was fairly quiet. I passed a few folks fishing, and some large yachts who’d anchored overnight in Mackerel Cove.

After a quick swim at the beach and a very short portage across the causeway, I returned to the Dutch Harbor dock to complete the loop: 7.82 miles in 2 hours, 10 minutes, and 30 seconds of almost non-stop paddling. A 3.5 mph average might not sound very impressive, but I definitely felt like I earned my post-paddle Recoverite—and a lazy Sunday afternoon of reading.

Mental challenges matter

Paddling down West Passage and back again would’ve been a very similar physical challenge, but adding in the navigational achievement of a partial circumnavigation made it mentally satisfying as well. This summer, with our usual goalposts no longer visible, it’s important to create new challenges. I’m very proud of achieving a new personal best: my longest SUP yet. But I’m even happier to be able to say, “I’ve paddled around Beavertail!”

Read 5 Tips for Lifelong Fitness and other posts about Hammer Nutrition and proper fueling.