A poster for newspaper boxes on the streets of San Francisco
Far and away, an ocean trek was a pinnacle of my sprawling, 40-year journalism career. And by any measure, it also became the soggiest.
I fantasized making a 400-mile sea kayak voyage in the open Pacific while I sat at my desk at The San Francisco Chronicle, then—amazingly—next managed to sell this wacko scheme to my editors.
They bit, and that made me happy. But then, of course, I needed to actually go out and do it, in a monumental effort that had grim as well as exhilarating parts. What intrigues me most about that journey now is the extent to which I feel I’m still I’m paddling across those boundless, heaving waters.
That long marine trek was so vivid, so captivating visually and emotionally, such a thrill to ultimately accomplish, that big moments from the voyage bob easily up to the surface in my mind. As they do, I feel immersed in all those experiences afresh.
SUCH PEARLS OF REMEMBRANCE
In particular, I remember being encompassed by silvery, ethereal light during our launch into light seas and heavy fog at the Winchuck River estuary in Oregon. I very much recall leaning into gale-force winds on a breakwater in Crescent City and praying for the weather to improve, as my rain suit pressed against my body like shrink-wrap.
The memory of being whirled upside down and getting my paddle smashed in half amid a risky crash landing in high surf on the Klamath River bar will never leave me. There were also sublime blessings like making camp in the Lost Coast wilderness as well as other magical sites. And nothing can match the relief and pleasure I felt when paddling in under the Golden Gate Bridge to receive a jolly welcome from family, friends and local media at a beach in San Francisco Bay.
What sold my bosses at The Chron on this project (I think) was, I designed the voyage to be about more than just a physical challenge or aquatic adventure. Not that paddling 400 miles in 40 days along a rugged shore in oft harsh conditions is any chore to soft-pedal. It’s a tough assignment, and a journey few have dared to undertake. In fact, some top California paddlers have attempted it, reconsidered, and turned around.
SKETCHING A STATE OF MINE
My promise to the editors was that, in addition to providing readers with gripping tales about the travel, I’d also file stories on coastal towns and the feisty folks who dwelt there, the rich natural resources that sustained them, the region’s pioneer and settler history, as well as accounts of local indigenous tribes and all the labor they’ve done to save and revive their cultures. That last topic has never won all the coverage it’s due.
At nearly every landing, I’d pass a thumb-drive holding my latest yarn to the Chronicle photographer who strove to parallel our course on shore (not easily) and eventually filed dozens of stories to run in the paper, along with audio podcasts and videos—at the time, this was all fairly new reportorial tech.
What emerged from my project, overall, was a full-length, full-frontal portrait of California’s North Coast. This fabled region extends all the way from San Francisco to Crescent City at the Oregon border. My pro advantage in telling the tale was that I’d spent my whole adult life roaming throughout this region, hiking, climbing, paddling, fishing, hunting, camping, taking jobs in its industries, admiring its beauties, soaking up its history, and researching its captivating present and probable future.
I did that for much of my journalism career, which awarded me a pretty damn good head start on the coverage.
PLAN A PADDLE—PADDLE A PLAN
However, I soon found much more was required to pull off the trip. Some half-dozen times I scouted up-and-down, from my intended start point to my destination, bouncing down rural roads and backpacking out to hidden coves. En route, I established waypoints on a waterproof, mapping GPS device (then, also new tech). I studied aerial photos of the coast, charts by the dozen. I met park managers, harbor masters, chatted up commercial fishermen.
Those last conversations proved sort of helpful, yet also kind of not. I asked trawler skippers, salmon trollers and the like: what was my best possible month to go? June or July, when the days were longest? They all recommended September, since the fog would be out, winds should be mild, and winter storms wouldn’t be expected to sweep in for weeks. Yet, lo and behold, guess what: the September of 2005 when we set out on our route got punched by no fewer than four multi-day gales—indistinguishable in every way from big winter storms.
Well, they did seem a tad warmer. However, only slightly!
I had visualized a leisurely pace that might average 10 miles a day. Instead, we were compelled to seek refuge, hole up somewhere to wait out a storm, and then sprint like hell to reach our next waypoint before a new blow smacked into us. Twice, we had to paddle more than a marathon distance in one day, then seek to land safely on a strange shore in utter darkness.
WAYFARING NOT-SO STRANGERS
I don’t mean to minimize all the great help and fine advice that we did receive.
I’ll start to describe it by defining the “we.” I was able to draft two companions on this adventure. One was Bo Barnes, director of an outdoors program for students at UCSF and a formidable paddler—amply shown by all the times he’d beaten me at sea kayak races on the Bay. The other was John Weed, a legendary water sports teacher and guide, who boasted a resumé of nautical expeditions—among his most impressive feats were long solo paddles in and across the Sea of Cortez.
Weed’s savvy judgment and offbeat humor were elements that I eventually reckoned as essential to the success of our voyage.
We enjoyed contributions from locals: an emergency delivery of drysuits from Kōkatat in Arcata; the hospitality of the rowers of a chapter of the Traditional Small Craft Association that let us camp in a clubhouse at Fort Bragg; the owners of MacCallum House in Mendocino who fed us a literal banquet down on the beach; and a subsistence fisherman in Albion who delivered a supply of smoked rock cod to our camp.
Those were all highly valued physical comforts. But personal inputs from many coast denizens became even more important in terms of accomplishing my goals. These rural residents spoke freely, frankly and frequently to me about their lives and works, hopes and dreams.
Lacking such sharing by them, my stories would’ve wound up sadly impoverished. One representative character who springs easily to mind was Leslie Dahlhoff, 49, bluegrass musician and mayor of Point Arena, who tugged on work gloves to restore an old building in her town—which had recently lost a bank branch—so that she could invite a new credit union to open up. That enterprise accepted, and it remains an asset in the village to this day.
Our most important unsung project partner was my wife, Dawn Garcia, whose contributions beyond sheer moral support went past all calculation. She bought a food dehydrator and dried vegetables for the stews that I’d whip up while camping. She aided in logistics and planning, and rendezvoused with us twice during the voyage—supplying us with an extremely welcome homemade blackberry pie. She even didn’t complain (much) when the one package I mailed to her during the trip contained nothing but wet, salty, torn clothing. We still joke about that today… kinda-sorta!
IT TAKES A MEDIA VILLAGE
As far as The Chronicle was concerned, I was the main guy who got to score publicity and a byline. Yet, clustered behind the scenes at Fifth & Mission was a whole cadre of folks who helped this project happen: editors, graphic designers, layout artists, and of course the business folks responsible for keeping our whole calliope tootling along. Worthy of special mention is photographer Michael Maloney, whose outdoor skills enabled him to keep pace with us on shore, and whose keen eye provided an array of excellent images that told the visual side of stories.
At the time, I reckoned this project, which we labeled “The North Coast Series,” as a high-water mark for my reporting. This year of 2025 is the 20th anniversary of that project, which is why we celebrate it anew.
But subsequently, I’ve come to see it as an achievement for independent media in general, the kind of massive effort that seems rare nowadays. Not because vision or will is lacking, necessarily, but because the economic model that sustained this kind of journalism got holed below the waterline. Budgets are tight, staff has been slashed, and nowadays outlets that remain often struggle to simply cover the basics.
My hope is the situation will stabilize, and that our modern media mavens will take a moment to reassess, then reinvent this capability. The value of in-depth, comprehensive stories needs to be recognized and funded, so projects like this can again occur—comprehensive series that broadly celebrate an American place, people and culture, and feed our sense of identity and community.
AN ONGOING ENDGAME
I have only one big regret about the trip, but it’s mitigated by a font of satisfaction.
My regret is that—as we approached our final destination in San Francisco Bay—an offshore wind blew a giant plume of beige, polluted air out through the Golden Gate. I saw this cloud spread out over the Pacific, a collective exhalation of human activity and a clear warning of a gathering threat to all the natural beauties I’d savored over the course of our voyage.
But when we landed on the beach and I was interviewed by Channel 5 news, I never mentioned it at all. Now, I very much wish I had. It would have underscored the message I was aiming to communicate in a more impactful way: our paradise of Northern California needs to be valued more highly, in order for us to see it sustained.
My satisfaction comes from the fact that, two years later, as I took a buyout from the Chronicle, I negotiated for the rights to keep The North Coast Series, writing and photos, posted up on my website. Here’s the link.
And that’s where all the material remains readily available for your perusal to this day. Thus, the story still is able to have legs—sealegs, as it were.
So, how’d you like to go back in time and out to sea, and share that voyage with me? It’s easy. Just travel along via The North Coast Series button on the menu bar of this site. Start at the top, and paddle your way on down. And, may I say, welcome aboard!
