Not big on keeping a detailed log on such a epic voyage that began in New Spain, it’s difficult to determine how far north Cabrillo sailed. However, the Channel Islands were the westernmost landmass discovered.

Now known as San Miguel Island, we put-in off the Truth, led by three kayaking guides from Santa Barbara Outfitters. The route: a leisurely 10-mile paddle from Cuyler Harbor heading northwest to the inside cove of Harris Point, a battered finger of volcanic crags clad in unforgiving crusty barnacles and black mussels. The return would include a quick circumnavigation of Prince Island, a half mile east of Cuyler Harbor. Paddlers in blue, green, yellow and red kayaks fanned out, negotiating wishy-washy waves crashing around Harris Point ensconced in a persistent summer fog.

Guides Garrett Kababik, Joel Mulder and Josh Lewis herded 20 paddlers over slightly submerged rocks, into narrow volcanic corridors, and past rocky pinnacles guarded by juvenile brown pelicans, cormorants and whistling black oystercatchers.

At its most weathered, rugged point, massive cavities carved out the brittle rock symbolized the ferocity of storms, winds and waves that have sculpted Harris Point over the centuries. Some of the inaccessible cliff faces served as huge canvasses of brightly colored lichen. Lime green, burnt chili and lemon yellow lit up the unforgiving islandscape despite the dense haze blanketing San Miguel.

One secluded cove hosted a slew of raucous sea lions and ungainly elephant seals. A cacophony of bellows, snorts and barks could be heard 100 placid yards offshore in our plastic boats. While the lazy elephant seals flipped sand on their broad backs, the sea lion earlings-sleek, fast and curious-ventured from the sanctity of their rookery investigating the intrusion. Their long necks bracing huge brown eyes strained like periscopes for a better glimpse. Several breached. Others porpoised along our port and starboard sides
within the length of our paddles, with the King of San Miguel watching over us from the steep slopes of Harris Point.

Then we left San Miguel, and aided by light winds, swell and current, we stroked with ease for nearby Prince Island-a seabird’s haven. From early spring into early summer, pelagic birds nest, breed and raise their broods on this ominous rock. Pigeon guillemots with beakfuls of silver fish ran on water to reach their chicks. Western gulls hovered
above, and some still weaned pestering chicks on rocky crevices. Fetid seabird guano signified the most popular hangouts, with brown pelicans and pelagic cormorants crowding the best perches. We skirted the inside of thick, protective kelp forests shielding us from the increasing northwest winds. Now only a quarter mile away, the aroma of a onboard barbecue heightened my senses, offering incentive to quickly reach the Truth, the only vessel in the harbor. Frederick, the galley chef, was whipping up the first of many fantastic meals
throughout the trip.

After we stuffed ourselves, the captain chased the glow of a sunset toward Santa Rosa Island, its dunes and windswept terraces set ablaze, then we disappeared around Johnson’s Lee to anchor and count a multitude of shooting stars. At dawn, the fog hovered lightly above Santa Rosa, while the sun burst through warming the island’s rolling hills. As we motored around East Point, we were met by unfavorable winds blowing from the northwest. The Truth maneuvered it’s way to the inside of the southeast anchorage of Becher’s Bay, where we landed on a deserted cove.

Scott Rousch-the onboard naturalist-led a hike through one of the rarest forests in the world. The Torrey Pines overlooking Becher’s Bay are unique to the island. The only other forest of its kind is found in San Diego, at the Torrey Pines State Beach. A new trail meandered upward, weaving through the sprawling pines eventually rewarding us with breathtaking views of the massive, windswept bay.

Weeping Willows

The green-eyed girl paddled toward two towering pinnacles, her long, blond hair swaying lightly on her brown back. The air was dry, the water cool. Atop the sheer, 50 foot high pinnacles, pelicans and gulls basked throughout the dormant giant coreopsis, while another summer escapes into fall. She landed on the deserted beach, this little paradise all to herself. The shimmering water was turquoise green. Bleached driftwood strewn across the dry sand bordered a
fresh trail of recently arrived seashells zigzagging along the peak of the last high tide. While solitude lulled on the beach, guides, Mulder and Kababik, led several eager kayakers to a small reef inside Willows Anchorage, possibly the most scenic cove on the backside of Santa Cruz Island. A playful wave-riding exhibition ensued for the
experienced paddlers, while the inexperienced found themselves negotiating the sharp, slippery rocks to retrieve their lost kayaks.

Eneepah

That’s what the Chumash called Anacapa Island. The word means deception, and in the fog it’s topography becomes easily distorted. One time while making a channel crossing from the Santa Barbara Harbor, my eyes played tricks on me in the fog. So dense, it made a cargo ship appear like the narrow islet, until I got close enough to see whitewater cresting off its ominous bow.

Fortunately the conditions weren’t that extreme at Frenchy’s Cove, but draped in morning fog, deception was Anacapa’s allure. Pockmarked by a proliferation of sea caves, fissures, arches and coves, it’s a kayaker’s playground, and spelunking the myriad of perforations awaits paddlers at every level.

After leading us through the Keyhole, guides Kababik, Lewis and Mulder paddled us down through Cathedral Cove. Dark, narrow caves invited us inside, but a surging west wind swell made entering grottos occasionally precarious. The waves washed through, nearly scraping the cavern’s ceiling.

The guides gave the thumbs up inbetween sets and instructed us on what to do once inside, but some paddlers were caught by surprise. Waiting in a cove after entering a cave and exiting at the other end, I watched the trail of paddlers parade through one by one.

Half way through the procession, a swell lifted an unbeknownst kayaker uncontrollably into the wall of the cavern. It’s speed required a quick decision to make a hard left turn, but it was too late.

“Ah, we have our first swimmer of the day,” said Lewis, as the helmet-clad casualty bobbed like a cork in the mouth of the hole.
After swimming his boat out of the grotto, he scrambled back into his boat. A smile on his face and no worse for ware, he let out a hoot, grateful for the collision while just missing the volcanic rock that makes like a cheese-grater.

Sea lions joined in the fun, obviously better equipped and more adept at maneuvering along the island’s craggy coastline. They’re the clowns of the sea, enjoying anything the ocean delivers. They’re also amazing rock climbers scaling the tricky pinnacles of Cathedral Cove.. We paddled past several yearlings already displaying the ability to hoist themselves up with their powerful necks and shoulders.

As if the caving wasn’t enough, Mulder found a slightly exposed rock and used it as his own personal rodeo, riding high with the surge and teetering on the edge as it washed back out. He maneuvered his sit-in kayak like he was riding a river rapid, never relinquishing control over rock and surge.

The current was pulling us around the southeast end of the island, through the 40 foot arch rock, the symbol of the national park. It signified the end of another kayaking trip to “the Galapagos of the north,” but the adventure never dies with the islands just offshore.

Contact Information

To experience a motherboard trip to the Channel Islands National Park, contact Santa Barbara Outfitters at (805) 899-3010, or toll free at 1-877-526-3273. Visit their web site at www.sboutfitters.com. E-mail: info@sboutfitters.com. For Truth Aquatics, call (805)962-1127, or visit www.truthaquatics.com.