One can only imagine. The tales that could be told by the sea. Tales of terror ending in silence after the violent thrashing into a smear of flotsam. 

The sea, like the weather turns the way it wants.  Man tries to predict. The predictions are only probabilities of what may or may not happen. 

I remember one group kayak expedition that I guided. Not that I guide too many and this may have been the last one anyways.  The concept seemed tidy enough.  Go up to a head tide at high tide and ride the tide out to the takeout point. The weather forecast mentioned that the wind would also be at our back and not turn until much later in the day. 

HA! said the weather diety of probabilities. The first half of the trip was met expectations.  A gentle calm flowing with the wind & tide. Then the wind turned early, from our back to full frontal. The surface tension of the water changed from calm to chaotic rolling chop. 

Half the party exited early at an available takeout point. But the vehicles were still several miles and one island length away. Several of us shouldered on. One hit their personal limits early. A tow rope was connected to pull the one who ignored the opportunity for the takeout. Each paddle was a challenging struggle. Occasional the forward thrust was into a wavelet that broke over the bow and splashed the paddler.  



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