His eyes are ablaze,
See the madman in his gaze.

Fly, on your way, like an eagle,
Fly as high as the sun,
On your way, like an eagle,
Fly and touch the sun.

—from Iron Maiden’s, Flight of Icarus

 

Prologue

Gravity had set in, inertia was taking hold. The struggle to stay active on the downward slope of middle age is real. My kick for staying fit, backpacking, was no longer practical, nor fun, for my worsening knees.

A couple summers ago, a friend suggested we go standup paddle boarding (SUP), a low-impact and excellent form of exercise and getting outdoors and on the water. Forebodingly, we weren’t able to go on the scheduled day due to a pop-up thunderstorm; such is summer in Nashville. I wouldn’t actually give SUP a try until just recently, within the context of the worldwide insanity that is 2020.

I did months of research, purchased a couple of solid boards, and alone hit my local dammed lake, J Percy Priest Reservoir, to practice SUPping to proficiency. Only then did I set out to find fellow SUPpers (I’ve never heard us called that, but it’s literally literally convenient) from whom to learn the best gear, local venues, etc. Meetup.com had zip zero nada SUP groups in the greater area, so it asked moi if I wanted to start a group. Sure. What the hell.

I rapidly learned that the members of my Meetup group’s outings were looking to me, a total novice to the sport, for leadership and pro tips. Fake it till you make it, right? I continued my solo trips, pushing myself in stronger and ever stronger winds and amid heavy boat traffic, going farther distances, even researching night SUPping gear should a group get stranded beyond dusk somehow; all in an effort to be a better SUP leader.

This training culminated in my first successful night paddle on July 2nd, and then another on J4…

 

1

No Chance of Rain

RosyRinglets, a friend with whom I’d done the J2 cherry popping night SUP, also accompanied me on J4. The weather forecast was perfect, the chance of rain was absolute zero all day and past the wee hours, and so we’d planned to head out at 1800 for a paddle, then anchor off at sunset and watch the fireworks erupt around us above the lake’s surrounding tree line.

This trip was set up as a Meetup event, but no one else RSVP’d. Had they, the original plan was to take a short trip from our launch, the Hamilton Creek Recreation Area, across the creek’s greater cove, to anchor off the opposite shore, the western side of the Anderson Road peninsula, have some beverages and snacks while enjoying the sights.

As it was, when RosyRinglets and I reached that planned anchorage, the sun was still one extended horizontal hand width above the tree line, meaning we still had an hour before sundown. I suggested that we continue north and try to reach the beach at the northeastern tip of the peninsula, a part of the Anderson Road Recreation Area. Reaching this had been a goal of mine, as a gauge to the difficulty of achieving Bear Island, across the channel north of the beach, on which to camp on a future trip. RR agreed and we sallied forth.

Crossing some smooth but large-wake-filled open water, I reflected upon my being mesmerized by the endless flux of motion upon which my body was engaged in balancing.

“The motion is hypnotic, a tactile equivalent to staring into the ever changing flames of a fire,” I mused to RosyRinglets.

She replied by singing some lines from the movie, Pocahontas’, “Just Around the Riverbend”…

 

What I love most about rivers is
You can’t step in the same river twice.
The water’s always changing, always flowing…

We reached the beach after passing through a wonderfully calm little cove off the channel. It was ominously deserted, though the trash cans were overflowing, giving it a post apocalypse feel. I would’ve been more creeped out had there not yet been ski boats floating and partying in the clement offing.

The sun setting among the clouds was fluorescent orange pink beautiful. Occasional fireworks rose from the trees and blossomed in the distance.

After some chatting about the best campsites on Bear, we turned back toward the anchorage.

“When I first started paddle boarding, getting as far as Anderson Beach seemed so daunting! Now, it’s no big deal,” I said to Rosy.

Above the din of my boast, I couldn’t hear Mother Nature’s gleeful cackling as she picked up the gauntlet I’d carelessly dropped.

2

The Horrors of a Lee Shore

Gods demand sacrifice, as Cain can attest. My immediate god, J Percy Priest, sustains on sunglasses. Was there a SUP trip in which I’d not lost a pair? Nope, and thus my fondness for the $5 pairs at Home Depot checkouts. But on this outing I’d been careful to selfishly withhold the lake’s due…

Heading back westward along Anderson’s tip, RosyRinglets and I rounded a point only to be surprised by a lightning flash and the sight of a cumulonimbus dumping on a small area some miles to the south. Zero chance, huh?

I plopped me bum down on the board, legs astraddle, scooted forward to my deck dry bag and got out my phone. Wunderground’s Wundermap radar animation showed a mini system appearing out of nowhere, but fortunately heading northwest and skirting our pin drop. However, lightning on the aqua is nothing to mess with, no matter how far away, so we decided to sprint to the shoreline and hug it as we proceeded now circuitously to our chill spot.

At this point (in the narrative), I should point (figuratively) to the fact that this was but RR’s 3rd trip SUPping. Her ability to fight the increasing wind that endeavored to dash her upon the craggy limestone shore was no shit impressive.

We rounded yet another point and got a better view of the southern sky. The small cumulonimbus had grown. Dark clouds were spreading. The air was thickening.

I checked the radar again and it not only confirmed our vision but told worse – the raincloud beast was expanding southeast toward us faster than its center was heading away.

The lightning flashes increased in frequency. Counting the seconds between sight and sound showed the bolts were mostly 2 miles away, but sometimes only 1. So we pushed on, but ever ready to beach the boards and ourselves if the lightning got closer.

Along the coast here are the Anderson Road campgrounds on which people must register and pay to car camp. We passed several nestled among the trees. One site had a group of campers chilling in the water seemingly unconcerned with death by electrocution. We exchanged small talk about boards and balance abilities as we passed, and left them chatting with themselves about kayaks, etc.

Up ahead was another campsite with a large grassy swath on its coastline. Miss Ringlets and I agreed to head there to rest and reevaluate. One of its campers was standing near the water, gazing at the sky.

As we neared, “Aren’t you worried about the lightning?” he asked.

“Yes!” I said, grateful for the sympathy.

“You mind if we stop here and check the weather?” Rosy asked.

“Y’all can just stay close to the shore,” he clarified and motioned in our direction of travel.

We pushed on. Fireworks were now everywhere with the darkening sky, rising above the black horizon all around. Their booms echoed across the lake, confusing our interpretation of the thunder. The center of the Anderson Road peninsula was residential and peopled with enthusiastic patriots who communicated their Murrican pride via pyrotechnics. It sounded looked felt like we were in a war zone.

Hamilton Creek Recreation Area was close now, but across the cove.  I suggested we bail on hugging the shore and boogie more directly to a point across the cove from our journey’s launch. We did so, beached the boards and sat upon them.

Dry land at last.

But not for long.

3

Point Tantalus

Tempting Fate, seals your fate. I tried to be good, I did, despite my spite for The Precautionary Principle. Typically, and counter to The Law, I SUPped sans a Personal Flotation Device. I did have a couple PFDs from my boating and canoeing days and somehow they’d survived until the past couple of weeks. Unbeknownst to me, these normally deflated units could not only be inflated by mouth or pulling a ripcord to release the charge of a CO2 cartridge, but the cartridge would also do its deed when submerged in water. This, RosyRinglets discovered on her first trip and her first fall off her board. Oops!  Wearing the inflated vest makes it impossible to paddle.

She subsequently bought her own “normal” ski vest for future trips as well as replacement CO2 for my vest. But upon replacing the cartridge my vest immediately re-inflated – apparently the submerging sensor thingy needs to be reset. Who knew? On the J2 night SUP I did bring my 2nd vest but it met the same fate while stowed with my deck bag. I threw the fucking things away and ordered PFD belts that don’t think for themselves. But those’ve yet to be delivered.

All this is to get around to saying that come J4 RR had her normal vest and I had nothing.

We’ve since named that spot where we beached, Point Tantalus. By now it was fully night and dark. Tantalizingly, a street light from the parking light of Hamilton Creek Recreation Area shone for us from across the inlet.

So close… as they saying goes.

And next? The rain found us. Wind whipped up the lake. The lightning flashes never let up; they and the fireworks intermittently illuminated the bellies of the storm clouds. Thunder and fireworks boomed and sizzled together in some sick symphony. Thick woods blocked a landward retreat behind and potentially deadly electrifying open water threatened ahead. The air temperature dropped.

Stranded in the wilderness, most people die of exposure, long before from dehydration, starvation, predators, etc. RosyRinglets and I’d come dressed for a hot day on warm water. And so exposure became my biggest fear. RR donned a long sleeved water shirt over her swim suit top, and over that her PFD. I had on water shoes and swim trunks.

“Do you want to put on your T shirt?” asked Rosy.

“I’m saving it as a last resort,” I said, and didn’t let on that I was starting to shiver.

The weather forecast went from the storm’s blowing out in an hour, to 2 hours, then 3, and so on, worse and worse. The tempest ex nihilo could not be slaked. Mother Nature, J Percy Priest and Fate would collect their toll. RR and I couldn’t risk lightning on the open water. We might not survive a wet night on land.

I propped up a board against a tree to make shelter from the rain.

Tennessee Wildlife Resources patrols the lake. I tried to call them:  pre-recorded after hours message.

“I think we’re in 911 territory now.”

Miss Ringlets agreed.

After several calm and useful convos with the 911 operator, the Nashville Metro Fire Department was chosen to come to our aid.  Across the cove at our launch beach, we saw the flashing lights of a car enter the parking lot. Then a wielded flashlight ambled down to the beach and shone in our direction. I turned on my headlamp’s strobe and pointed it west. The flashlight signaled back. Our position was known.

In time red and green running lights appeared out of the gloom from the lake’s main channel and grew as our rescue motored down the cove to Point Tantalus.

Our wax having been sufficiently melt, the wind died, the rain spared, the lightning vanished.

The FD dudes were cool in an awkward and chugging boat. We embarked easily enough, a fun experience in itself.

The trip across the bay was mockingly calm as The Firmament rubbed salt in the wounds of those who would dare fly too close to the AnderSun.

“Would you do it again?” I asked RosyRinglets as we said good night in my driveway.

“Yes!” she glowed.