Oh, Catalina

As you arrive at the Catalina Express ferry terminal from somewhere in the Los Angeles Basin, a covered parking lot provides shade to keep your car cool. Our eight person kayaking group parks and assembles outside of the terminal, waiting for the 730AM ferry. Our destination: Two Harbors, Catalina Island.

We perform a roll call for the group. One Swedish Art Director tied romantically to a photographer/producer, the trip organizer. Coupled neighbors, a lawyer and a former foley nerd, now a video game producer. A Topanga local (born, raised, and living), in the realty trade, living apart from but together with an artist and (sub)-contractor. And two Canadians, a poet/programmer and me, amateur author and poorly trained emergency medical hobbyist.

The Catalina Express ferry serivce has a half-dozen boats running to the island from Dana Point to Pedro. The company likely purchased the boats from a now-defunct state run service. Lackluster maintenance is evident in the peeling paint in the onboard bathrooms. We drop our bags and board, sitting outside for the slow crawl from the harbor, surrounded by the usual port activity. Containers being loaded/unloaded, coast guard returning from intruder patrol, seagulls shitting on warships. 30-something year old men with puffy mustaches and soft bellies watch as the passengers find their seats – or the bar. The bloody mary’s, apparently, are great.

The ferry breaks the waves and the marine layer as we make our way southeast to the island where we will spend the next four days. As we sit in the group, I hint at our coming drama with a brief set of questions about ailments and treatment. Probing for who has allergies, diabetes, etc. as well as how to locate and utilize the medical kit. The kit contains: trauma shears, tweezers, oral thermometer, a 60 cc syringe, SAM® Splint, wound dressings, vetwrap, povidone iodine (10%), gloves, 2nd skin, duct tape, sharpie, notepad, reference material. Hand assembled in a dry-bag. I carry it around with pride.

Alongside the ferry groups of dolphins hop in the waves, acting like spoiled teenagers in high-end sports parks. A small contingent of ski-doos race toward the island from the mainland, apparently at the tail-end of a multi-hour hour ride. The crewman in the ferry recounts his interview applying for a role as a ski-doo guide and suggests that helping on the ferry “is way less effort”. As we pull into the Two Harbors terminal we note the heavy portion of California-flagged boats, the single “Let’s Go Brandon” on the mast of a ruddy-looking sailboat perhaps destined for Corpus Christi via Panama – or maybe just our modern San Francisco.

The goal is to leave Two Harbors upon arrival and kayak for a half-day to “Ripper’s Cove”, the favorite coastal campsite of our organizers. The ferry pulls into the cove and we disembark, carrying too much gear to our very small kayaks waiting on the beach. Much negotiation and strapping occurs before we shove out and begin the initial paddle toRippers.

Kayaking to Rippers

Water splashes on our garbage-bagged gear as we make our way along the coast. The Topanga couple share a tandem, initially fighting over direction, the wind rendering their internal squabbling inaudible across the water while the rest of us single-kayak. We set a good pace with brief stops for swimming and coral inspection occurring along the way. The forests of kelp reach 20-30ft off the sea floor towards the sun, where little orange fish (garibaldi, not your petshop gold) dart through. The water is crystal clear, offering structural rock formation views, aqua blue colors, and pleasantly refracting sunlight. We are all on the lookout for harmless but beautiful bottom-feeding leopard sharks. The mood in the group is light and optimistic, free of foreboding.

As we round the corner into Ripper’s Cove, the campsite for the length of the trip, red-shorted teens are scattered across the beach and into the small shaded areas. We regard them with curiosity given their total and complete occupation of our reserved campsites. Ill postured boys lay in hammocks, fuzzy haired early-teens throw rocks, and an avoidant adolescent naps in full sunlight covered with a sleeping bag, head-to-toe.

We make landfall and our organizer approaches the oldest looking teen. The boy explains that they come from a nearby scout camp, on an overnight adventure that is far superior to “merit badging”. The leader presents a screenshotted reservation showing a claim to the campsite. Eyebrows are raised as we present the same. It is concluded that the campsite owners will need to make a decision as to who can lay claim to the site. Plans are then made to climb the hill to obtain service. The cell phone reception is spotty in the bay – forcing us to utilize outdated communication techniques in the events of the following day.

The phone calls are made, passive negotiations conducted, and it is decided that the teens would utilize the site on the opposite side of the jettied cove. Rippers is a medium sized bay with reefs along each flank, a jetty that splits the beach, and several steep trails up out of the flats beyond the sandy shore. On our half of the site, several trees provide shade and a picnic table space for our camp stoves. We later learn from Mike (the owner of a CB radio capable of contacting emergency help) that the trees were planted by a nursery owner from Canoga Park, a city outside of Los Angeles, and hand-watered for several summers to establish.

View of Rippers Cove (left) and our shaded cooking area looking south (right)

Catalina is wet and windy at the shore but achingly dry in the ground. Low chaparral provides shade for skinny foxes and rattlesnakes, but not for the large imported buffalo that wander the high ground. The trees on our site are an uncommon shelter from the relentless and reflecting sunlight. The humid wind chills you in the shade, the sun inflames your skin, and so you rotate and anticipate the next move of the solar heat. Cacti spring up all over, covering sunbaked hills and crowding trails with their sharp spikes. Stingrays dot the shoulder-height water, afraid of stomping feet but brave and dangerous up close.

Teens and cityfolk now separated, tents are put up, coolers unpacked, and dry bags are emptied. Beer from the floating cooler, mezcal, marijuana, and so on. The cove is lit by the moon, underwater illumination from a boat in the bay, and the soft glow of Los Angeles County in the distance.

Catalina Island is placed 20-something miles off the coast of Los Angeles/Orange Counties, one of the most populous regions in the United States. Everything, as a result, is well worn. This is the great outdoors for apartment dwellers, or those with tight zoning and little lots. Helpful signage exists across the island. Planes fly overhead to land at the airstrip on a steppe at the highpoint above us. Regulations instruct the packing in and out of your solid bathroom waste as the shitting is of intense volume for such a little place.

The next day the teens are gone – having paddled away in their canoes in the middle of the night. They leave empty Capri Suns scattered across their takeoff spot, fuel for the trip. One camper fails to load his backpack into the canoe at all. We collect the trash, to be picked up later that morning in a routine visit by the ranger, who also kindly delivers an extra can of cooking fuel (to me) given it was forgotten.

Most of the group Kayak’s while I watch the camp and read in the hammock set between the imported trees. The kayak group's return brings laughter and consumption of everything that can be packed up into chocolate or bottles. Music plays and spirits are high. It is decided that some of the group will hike one of the trails out of the cove, and so up they go. Everything is peaceful, calm, and easy in the camp.

Up the hill I hear a yell of my name filter through the wind. The wind is blowing onshore, making words from above barely audible in the camp some 300ft away. Motioning from the group as they stand around an individual sitting on a rock. I grab the medical kit and hold it up, as a question – met with upward thumbs. Up I climb, dodging and bumping into the cacti all around the edges of the trail. This was the fate of our Art Director, sitting and fiddling with his leg.

A cactus needle had lodged its way through the skin and down part of the length of the shin. Not visible from the outside anymore, but you could see it as it poked through. Unable to walk, we go about planning extraction. The rest of the group wanders off, dulled by the strategizing and unexcited by the potential for blood. The host of the cactus needle insists he alone will make a small incision above the needle. I will then reach in with tweezers (gloves donned) and extract the needle, dress the wound, and we’ll walk down.

Cutting skin proves difficult when it’s your own. Minor self-surgery. But we make progress, almost enough to reach. He is mid-sentence on a description of the next cut when his eyes roll to the back of his head, his blood drains to the center of his body, and his arms lock up in front of his chest. He is suddenly and quite dramatically unresponsive.

I had taken a WFR (wilderness-first-responder) course months prior on a whim, not at all matching the profile of the climbers and expeditioners that was the norm for the other course participants. The course had been thorough, leaving me with some sense of what to do but no experience doing it.

So he was quickly rolled into the recovery position, as I was supposed to anticipate possible vomiting due to toxins or trauma. There was no clear injury or cause of his loss of consciousness. His girlfriend saw his white cold skin and empty eyes and screamed for help, a brief discussion and she was careening down the hill to camp. All of the members of the bay understood there was cause for concern up the hill.

The message went out via Mike, floating in the bay in his boat. Onboard were fishing rods, a blue lives matter sticker, and a CB radio. He radioed for help – someone is in severe distress. The other Canadian swam back and forth to his boat relaying messages. I was half taking vitals and half scrawling a note to be run down and communicated to the responding EMS.

Rumor in the camp, I found out later, was that the cactus had poisoned him – as a result, he was in grave condition. In addition to the critical diagnosis, the radio garbled the messages that did go out, so responding EMS interpreted the event as “100ft fall down the hill” vs. “100ft up the hill”. A helicopter was being warmed up somewhere on the mainland, ready for extraction and transport.

He was still unresponsive when the call for help went out. But minutes later, he mumbled from barely responsive to fully awake and in confusion of his whereabouts stated that he “felt a lot better” to a concerned audience of several friends. The lights from the “Baywatch” boat were approaching along the shore. We feed him some of those knock-off organic Reeses’ Cups and plenty of water.

Cody, our LAFD first responding paramedic, was not pleased to witness 4 fully responsive adults sitting on the hill with very little trauma. I began summarizing the scene – ignore the leg, something is wrong with this guy. Cody suggests, rather anticlimactically, that he just doesn’t like to see his own blood. We omit his diverse collection of ingested toxins from the summary. Our rescuer turns away and lowers his voice as he sheepishly asks for a helicopter to be canceled.

Despite having regained consciousness, our patient can’t walk on two legs due to the pain. It’s decided the best way down is for him to balance his hands on my shoulders and hop on his good leg. After more deliberating at the bottom and impatient prodding from Cody, we determine he should take the offered boat ride to the hospital to diagnose why he lost his light and for them to cut open his leg and take out the invasive needle.

He departs with his girlfriend (our trip organizer) and the county EMS on their boat. We eat dinner and digest events. What was it? Was that a seizure? Is he an epileptic and we didn’t know? Was he just dehydrated? Sun exposure? Scared of his own blood? Bad drugs? With Catalina dark again, and tired of guessing for the night, we crawl back into our tents to sleep.

The sun fights to break through the morning fog the next day as we await their news. “No explanation, but the needle is out” via spotty texts. They come back, catching a boat ride later that afternoon. Catalina seems even drier, the afternoon sun even hotter. Our last full day at the site was whipping-harsh wind and a fear of stingrays, dwelling on the beach, discussing the event, strategically ignoring the event. I watch as some kind of duck fishes in our bay, floating for breath, diving for prey, floating for breath, diving for prey, only to be scared away from its food by an adventurous kayaker.

Catalina is aggressive, forceful, and determined. The animals and plants native or transient make a strange collection that seems to reject human presence. The island's proximity to dense population gives it a sense of feeling used and hardy. But her physical beauty is confident – the sun glints, colors yell, grasses hum. The clarity of the ocean is unforgettable. There may be no better wilderness retreat for an inhabitant of the cities of Southern California.

Catalina Island, sun overhead

We paddle out on the final day of the trip. Hours into a headwind with lighter kayaks and worn-down resolve. The paddles push through the waves and spray as we pass by the craggy cliffs, grecian peaks, and dense summer-camps. I replay in a loop his fraught, cold, unresponsive posture on the dry, windy hill.

Our kayaks are returned to a beach resort, stuffed with Basin tourists in mirrored sunglasses, burgers on paper plates, runny nacho cheese, and fluorescent frozen drinks. Impatient local servers negotiate bill splits, adjust umbrellas, and interpret gestures. White tiled bathrooms offer relief to day-trippers.

Occasionally, a haggard kayaker paddles past the buoys containing the children floating in the tide, sliding up to the beach. They drag their kayak across the rocks to the edge of the crowded sun chairs, unstrapping their black garbage bag full of their own feces and slinging it over their shoulder. They are kindly directed past the throng of people to a waiting dumpster, into which they toss the bag.