The Hudson River Watertrail Association

The following trip took place on July 27, 2002.

By Erik Baard

Steve Blumling from Staten Island, Mike from Yonkers, and I (Erik from Queens) circumnavigated Staten Island on Saturday. The door-to-door day trip was 23 hours for me, but that’s a mass transit issue — paddling time came in at 14 hours, including four brief stops, lingering at the Graveyard of Ships, and three interruptions from the police and Coast Guard.

We launched from the Great Kills beach at 7:15 AM, with Steve’s wife sending us off with encouraging words and an ear-to-ear smile for her daredevil husband. We were leaving about an hour later than planned, but I’m glad to report that my Feathercraft Kahuna folding kayak assembled rather quickly, with no hitches. Okay, some cheating with duct tape to ensure that my skin stayed in the combing, but no biggie. Mike and Steve had longer, more slender fiberglass boats. (They were going to be speedier, I knew, and keeping up would prove to be a small challenge during the day, especially with my propensity for stopping to take photos.) I think Steve has a Looksha and I don’t recall what brand Mike was paddling. Our tricolor was purple (Mike), red (Steve), and yellow (me).

The water was quite placid and the sky was edging toward full light — the cloudbank was sky-wide and a particularly dense region of it to the East delayed the onset of a real feeling of daylight. The current was weakly opposing us, at well under a knot and there was no wind to speak of as we paddled north through the Lower Bay. There were a few spots where the remains of piers stuck out above the water’s surface, with gulls standing on them. We paddled slowly through the piling fields.

At the Narrows, workers shouted and hooted at us from the bridge. We couldn’t understand what they were saying, but they seemed to be simply reacting to the novelty of kayakers below. The pace picked up slightly as we caught a favorable current.

Steve was great at filling us in on local history and lore as we paddled past old forts, a quarantine station, Alice Austin House, and other landmarks. He also shared anecdotes drawn from his frequent paddling of the area. Following seas were mild; just small, regular swells that diminished as we approached the Staten Island Ferry Terminal.

We had wanted to make a brief stop at a beach near Alice Austin, but pressed on because of our late launch. We lucked out on scooting past the ferry terminal — a boat left shortly before our arrival. There was a sheltered nook near the Staten Island Yankee Stadium (minor leagues) just past the terminal, but we didn’t stop there to rest either because though we were now pulling ahead of schedule, we wanted to bank away our time effectively to guard against any trouble that might come later. Also, stretching our legs was as important as snacking, so we kept our momentum to Snug Harbor Cultural Center.

Snug Harbor is a little ways down the Kill Van Kull. We had favorable current and were now confident that we’d reach the Bayonne Bridge by 11:00 AM, at which time the current would start to reverse from about that point.

We pulled into the floating dock at Snug Harbor.

(A word about Snug Harbor — it’s a former mariners’ retirement community that now houses arts organizations, museums, restaurants, and the Staten Island Botanical Gardens. I wrote it up in the New York Times as one of the top picks for kayak dining in New York City. The administrators there said they love that kayakers are using the dock because budget shortfalls and such made a near waste of the dock. Plans for a twice-daily ferry to the dock have been scaled back to only special events.

I played with the wind chimes newly hung from the bridge connecting the dock to land. A few minutes later, as we began to snack, two parks police officers (or park rangers) came trundling down the dock bridge overhead. One of them called out in a long whine, “What do you think you’re doing?”

Was it a trick question?

The officer claimed that the Kill Van Kull was closed to all but commercial traffic. We politely but firmly said that the Coast Guard had opened the waterway to all vessels at the start of spring. He then said the dock was “private property,” and we explained that the administrators of the very public Snug Harbor Cultural Center had on many occasions said they welcomed our visits. The officer seemed eager to make his big bust (did our pistachios tip him off that we three blue-eyed men were Middle Eastern and thus likely terrorists?). He warned that, “Do you want me to call my captain? He’ll have a field day with you!”

Seeing as we were already enjoying a field day — water day, okay — we figured, “go for it.” A few minutes later his captain, a far more relaxed man, came down and said he also loved having kayakers stop over. He asked that to avoid future problems we work with the administrators to have a memo (perhaps a list of kayakers’ names) drawn up so that park police know that kayakers are welcome. (Note: I’ll try to get that done this week.)

The captain seemed comfortable with our pushing off in about ten minutes, so he left. A few minutes later, however, his overeager underling was back with New York City police officers. The officer called me back to the dock (Mike and Steve hadn’t launched yet) and asked us to present identification. He apologized several times, saying, “I’m sorry. I know this is a pain in the ass, but…”

The officer was surprised that Mike would paddle so far from home — Tarrytown — but he was content with our trip plans and respectful demeanor. He sent us on our way.

While in my boat and under the bridge, I heard the city cop stiffly tell our poky nemesis, “Call us only when they give you trouble.”

Further down the Kill Van Kull, we separated a bit. Mike and Steve went closer to the center of the channel, keeping a sharp eye out and dealing well with ferry wakes. I held closer to the shoreline, though not hugging it. In any case, the petroleum refineries and other sensitive infrastructure were on the northern side of the channel, far from any of us.

As we passed an inactive drydock, a tug sat idling. Its engines were dead or near dead as its crew waited for us. Addressing Mike and Steve, the captain very matter-of-factly said over his megaphone, “You shouldn’t be in the center of the channel. The big ships won’t see you.”

He then turned to me and waved, nodded and smiled. Ah, a brown-noser’s delight!

About twenty minutes later we saw the same tug guiding a mammoth container ship through the Kill Van Kull and up to Newark Bay.

Steve took a break at Shooters Island while Mike and I drifted in the current slowly. The only paddling I did while waiting was to get in closer to the island to take photos. Steve was with again in a minute or two.

We continued down, under the blare of jets in the Newark Airport flight path. Already, we were getting a taste of the duality that is the Arthur Kill — lush and green salt marshes on Staten Island while just across the narrow strait New Jersey thrums with industry. At one point the industry was so intense that it reminded me of the White Lord’s evil foundry in “Lord of the Rings.”

One interesting anomaly. As we paddled south, we expected to get some help from the current. Instead, we bumped into some opposition. It felt as if the water was ebbing out to the North as well as south. Tidal software and charts indicate that the break should occur near Shooters Island, something that Ralph Diaz noted as well. It’s possible that a light wind had altered the water’s behavior as predicted from astronomical forces, or even that the current was indeed running south on the New Jersey side while we bucked some residual northbound water on the eastern, Staten Island, side. We just don’t know.

We scooted past ships and refineries and such, fascinated but keeping a watchful eye for traffic and security zones. Even so, sometime later while paddling through a sleepier part of the Arthur Kill, a Coast Guard inflatable craft zipped up and sounded its siren. A crewman gestured for us to come out toward to him, but we demurred, given that a barge was coming along. He understood, edged toward us and said, “I just have to tell you something. You were on candid camera for a while back there. There are security zones up and down the Arthur Kill. Where did you start and where are you going?”

He didn’t in any way accuse us of violating security zones, but only communicated that we raised concerns. We explained that we started from Great Kills Beach and were returning there. He confirmed that we had no intention of paddling back north. He instructed us to remain 100 yards from shore when around protected infrastructure. We assented but as far as I know (and again, Ralph seconds this take on things) the zones reach 25 yards. The rain had been misting on and off, and clouds were darkening, so he also cautioned us about the weather and wanted to make sure we had adequate lights. Steve had a white light; I have navigation LEDs in red, green, and white. I also had two white glow sticks for Mike if he needed them.

Regardless, we were off again with the final words from the Coast Guard being, “Have a great trip!”

The Staten Island Greenway is marvelous. On two occasions we had our course crossed by ducklings, and we spotted white egrets, commorants, gulls, geese, herons (even heron chicks), and myriad smaller birds. The shores were littered with signs of life — shells of many kinds, the remains of crabs that ended as gull food, and at the base of marsh grass was a thick mat of black mussels.

We got good current and rolled down to the storied Graveyard of Ships. If you’re into industrial archeology, ghost ship stories, or just quiet places to meditate, this is your score. It was amazing. Mike was the first into the yard, poking in and around the first two rows of ships. I followed, but paddled directly through a ship, taking many photos. I also paddled through ferries and other hulks. Steve took videos of paddling through the ships.

It was a surreal experience to paddle through a rust hole in a hull and paddle out of a rust hole on the other side. It was less wondrous to be caught inside when a wake hit, but I was fine. Steve followed, but soon enough we wordlessly went our separate ways. A quiet, contemplative mood overtook us and we just visited each ship. I kept trying to imagine the christening of the ships — a time when they were new and full of promise. I imagined the smelting, the handmade spikes, and the woodworking, the catwalks and scaffolding. I imagined the ships underway and then at other moments, these wrecks felt like they always belonged here.

After we regathered, Mike posed a question none of could answer: Why here? Why are so many ships left in this one place?

A few wrecks — some quite old — dotted the shoreline for miles to come. But one made a greater impression than any other: we found the purple barge with bubble formed windows that with great notoriety housed a Bohemian family near Pier 25 before being evicted. It was a sad end for such a joyful piece of whimsy.

Staten Island started to feel a bit like City Island at this point, Tottenville. It was wealthy, relaxed, and quaint.

Rounding the southern tip of Staten Island, we dealt with a wildly zigzagging channel. A natural gas tanker repeatedly looked like it was going to run aground as it turned sharply this way and that with the channel. Steve warned us about the weird navigational zone earlier and ably led us through it.

The wind picked up a bit, and the sky was dark over Sandy Hook and elsewhere in New Jersey. We worried about the weather and paddled determinedly north with the coastline not too distant. We finally found a hook of land about three or four miles south of Great Kills Beach. It was there that we took our last break, alongside fishermen who had lit a fire for roasting their catch. Mike and Steve stretched their legs while I rigged my lights. We paddled out into yet more wind and some breaking swells. Nothing horrible, but after 12 or 13 hours in the saddle, we suddenly needed to be alert again.

But as the sun set, everything became so calm. The sky was a soft gray glow, with only a hint of blue directly overhead. The rain never came, and the water became serene, with a silky look to it in the twilight.

Fishermen were casting into the surf from beaches all of the way up the shore, except where the homes of the wealthy but aesthetically challenged (one home was made with superficial trimmings to look like a castle) carved out private enclaves.

Finally, in full darkness, we swung very wide of the entrance to the Great Kills Marina. We landed in light surf, greeted by Steve’s lovely family.

And that’s all folks. It was about 36 or so nautical miles (Mike has the exact figure from his GPS handheld) and took about 14 hours. It’s tougher than a Manhattan circumnavigation because there’s less favorable currents and a greater distance to cover. I plan to try this trip again later this summer, perhaps leaving from Tottenville. More on that later, along with CG, Snug Harbor, and other follow-ups.

Trackback this Post | Feed on comments to this Post