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Wet and Wild on Woodley By Louisa Rogers
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h, how I love paddling on Humboldt Bay. When the tide is right, I might visit Indian Slough, where the narrow wandering passageways remind me of tiny lanes I’ve cycled in Wales, my husband Barry’s homeland. In spring, I spot nesting egrets clustered high in the cypresses and schools of sandpipers resting on the mud flats in low tide. Sometimes I weave in and out of pilings, like a slaloming skier, or see if I can squeeze through the opening of a channel marker without touching it. As long as it’s not too windy, I love the bay and never tire of its docks, moorings, jetties, marinas, faded fishing boats and decommissioned pulp mill. Unlike many paddlers we know, I’ll take the bay over Stone Lagoon any day. They avoid the bay because you have to pay attention to the tides. But Barry and I have a handy tide app, so we know when it’s possible to, say, circle Woodley Island, which you can only do when the tide is 5 feet or higher. The only downside of the app is that it can be off by an hour or more, and a few weeks ago I misjudged it, thinking the tide was at slack when it had already turned. Along with the gusts of wind, it was heavy going. I’m not a warrior paddler; no chop, wind, or rain for me. Unlike kayakers, I don’t even like wakes. Easy for them, all snug in their nests. “Try loving wakes when you’re standing on a paddleboard,” I tell Barry. I decided to cut my losses and get off at the Adorni Center. My paddleboard is so light, I was ready to whisk it home, but Barry turned out to be only a block away and carried it for me. Such a gentleman. Meanwhile I’ve recently started a new form of cross-training: Whenever I need a change of venue from strolling around Eureka’s streets, I hop on my paddleboard and head over to Woodley. Such was the case a few days ago. I took off from Old Town’s C Street dock,
NORTH COAST JOURNAL • Thursday, July 21, 2022 • northcoastjournal.com
carefully avoiding the docked Madaket, and headThe author paddling near Tuluwat. Photo by Barry Evans ed north at a seriously low tide. Gliding, I’d aim at the mainland, sight, and cleaned up as best I could. then at the island, back and forth in a On the dock, now presentable, if a herringbone pattern, passing the F Street little muddy, I introduced myself to the dock, the U.S. Coast Guard boat Barraguy, who was only protecting his home cuda, the Aquatic Center. Before long, turf. Fair enough. Just glad I don’t live in a I was approaching the north end of the “stand your ground” state. Woodley Island Marina. As I neared it, I Then I went on a walk, checking out realized I hadn’t had a dip for a while. I the boats, the fisherman statue and the used to go open-water swimming in the rock-mounted marker for “Indian/Gunbay and sometimes I miss the therapeutic ther Island, Site 67 (Tolowat),” a National cold. No one’s around, I thought. I could Historic Landmark, which, to my dismay, just scooch in from the dock, have a dip, says only, “This site possesses nationget my cold-water fix, then climb back al significance in commemorating the onto the dock, get dressed and walk on history of the United States of AmeriWoodley. I’m the fastest clothing-changca.” Of course, as we know, what really er I know. Easy. happened — far from the airbrushed OK, it’s settled. name — was that in 1860, white settlers I landed, turned my SUP over, snuck massacred Wiyot women and children my paddle and life vest under it, unliving on the island. In 2019, the island, to dressed, and slipped off the dock. I the northeast and larger than Woodley, hadn’t realized how muddy it was. “Well, was returned to the Wiyot Tribe and you did say you wanted to get down and renamed Tuluwat (“The Island’s Return,” dirty with nature more, Rogers,” I told Oct. 24, 2019). myself. A while back, I wrote the Humboldt Suddenly I heard a voice. A man with Bay Harbor, Recreation and Conservation long black hair on the ramp was shouting District saying that while we can’t change at me. “What are you doing swimming what our ancestors did, we can at least naked in the water?” tell the truth about the wording. I was “I’m getting wet and having a dip,” I happy to hear that a convoluted process shouted back. “I didn’t want to get my involving a range of stakeholders — most clothes wet.” importantly, the tribe — is in process. “Are you homeless?” After the marker, I brought my mind “No, I’m not homeless,” I said. back to the 21st century. Turning around, “Where do you live?” I strolled back to the end of the marina, “In Old Town. Look, please don’t climbed back on my paddleboard, and report me. I don’t want my picture headed home for lunch. What’s not to splashed all over. I’ll get out soon.” like? ● None too soon, in fact. I didn’t have the usual restorative feeling since I was Louisa Rogers (she/her) is a leadership covered in mud from my knees down. I coach and writer who lives in Eureka and waddled back to the dock, clambered Guanajuato, Mexico. up and snuck behind some boats, out of
