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Discover Mid-America — June 2006
On becoming a kayaker
For years I’ve harbored the notion of kayaking. Not the white-water, extreme-sports variety, but gentle explorations of lakes, streams and bayous. On a recent trip to Florida, I got my chance.
In February, my wife and I spent a few relaxing days in Cedar Key, an “old Florida” island town on the gulf just below the panhandle, near the mouth of the Suwannee River.
In the mid-1800s, the area was thriving. Cedar from nearby forests was floated down to Atsena Otie, the original Cedar Key settlement, where the Eberhard Faber mill and other mills turned the wood into pencil blanks. When the railroad was completed to Way Key (site of the current town) in 1861, the blanks were shipped across the channel, then on to pencil factories on the East Coast.
An 1896 hurricane leveled the mills and they were never rebuilt. Atsena Otie (Creek Indian for Cedar Key) eventually became an uninhabited nature preserve. The “new” Cedar Key relies on its local industry, clam farming, and tourists who come for the seafood, fishing, and gorgeous gulf sunsets.
Many visitors take boat tours to the outer islands. Others rent kayaks to explore the backwaters, rivers and creeks. Ancient Indian shell mounds are located nearby, and the area is visited by thousands of sea and shore birds.
For much of our stay, Cedar Key was shrouded in fog. While waiting for it to lift, I met Tom Liebert and his wife, Sherry, owners of Kayak Cedar Keys. Liebert, 62, retired from residential property management a few years back, and now rents kayaks for fun and profit.
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“I’ve always enjoyed paddling around in boats and kayaks,” Liebert told me. “This business keeps me active and I get to meet a lot of interesting people.”
The Lieberts have a pickup loaded with kayaks near the dock. A small table is stocked with brochures, and they take turns chatting with potential customers.
On the last full day of our visit, the fog moved in as if it intended to stay the winter. We could barely see across the street. Liebert gamely tended his kayak business but he was about ready to pack it in. Only a straggler who rented a kayak for fishing was keeping him on the dock.
Then, about four in the afternoon, the fog disappeared as quickly as it came. Atsena Otie, once hidden in a white shroud, was now a green sliver on the horizon.
“You want to try it for a couple of hours?” Liebert asked me.
He had no tour planned, but would rent me a kayak and I could paddle to Atsena Otie. I quickly agreed, signed a waiver, handed him the cash, and put on a life vest. My first kayak adventure was about to begin – not as a member of a group, but alone on the Gulf of Mexico – paddling the half-mile or so to a mysterious island. I could feel my pulse quicken.
Liebert selected a 12-foot “Heritage” kayak for me, gave me a brief lecture on the art of paddling, and pushed me into the water. The gulls and pelicans on the jetty shot me a bored glance as I paddled by, setting my course for Atsena Otie.
As Cedar Key grew smaller, I became aware of my own insignificance — a 12-foot speck of fiberglass and flesh on the vast gulf. If I missed Atsena Otie, I mused, I would be paddling toward New Orleans or Galveston with no more provisions than a bottle of water.
The island grew in size with each paddle stroke, and in about 40 minutes I was beaching the kayak on soft sand. For the next hour I explored Atsena Otie, walking a trail that included a display of the island’s historical timeline, a few remnants of the old lumber mills, and a cemetery with graves of 28 island residents buried between 1881 and 1911. I explored a large bay and tidal pools on the backside of the island, ringed with sea grapes and saw palmetto. Then I walked back to the kayak, re-launched it, and began my return trip to Cedar Key.
As I neared the dock, a large pelican, probably the elder statesman of the group on the jetty, splashed down a few feet in front of the kayak. Seeing I was not a food source, he took off again and rejoined the flock.
I returned to the dock, where Liebert helped beach the kayak and reclaim his property. My arms were tired, my rear-end was a little stiff, and my rolled-up jeans and deck shoes were soaked. But I was now a kayaker.
A week later I would paddle for 3-plus hours in an estuary off Pine Island in southwest Florida. There would be many more birds to see, several dolphins, and a small herd of manatees. And yes, I was tired and my arms were sore, and my ankles got sunburned where I failed to put on enough sunscreen. But, I decided, kayaking is still the best way to see Florida.
Ken Weyand can be reached at kweyand1@kc.rr.com
> Traveling with Ken Archive — past columns
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