Early December 2024, outrigger canoe surfers gathered at Castles in Waikiki to catch the biggest swell in decades with waves towering over 30 ft (9 m).
“It’s probably once a 30, 40-year swell,” said Jimmy Austin, a canoe surfer in a video on Ocean Paddle TV. “I don’t think I’ve ever actually seen waves this big in Waikiki.”
Castles is one of the best big wave surf spots on the Hawaiian South Shore. Manned by three to four surfers, the outrigger canoe is paddled similarly to a typical canoe but includes an outrigger on one side for additional stability in big water.
“There’s two types of people; ones that drop everything when it’s 10 ft and ones that always have excuses,” Alika Winter, a canoe surfer, shared in the video.
History of the outrigger canoe
The outrigger canoe is designed for both stability and efficiency on open water with an outrigger (ama) as a secondary floating hull parallel to the main canoe hull (vaka or wa’a). Traditionally, the canoe body is carved from a Koa tree and shaped to cut cleanly through the water, while the outrigger provides additional stability.
Outrigger canoes are related to the traditional voyaging canoe used by Polynesian mariners to travel between the islands in the Pacific. Traditional Polynesian voyaging canoes were much larger than the outrigger canoe. A 50-60 ft (15-18 m) boat was considered medium-sized and capable of transporting whole families and their belongings across oceans. The voyaging canoe is essentially two canoe hulls connected by crossbeams with a central platform over the crossbeams, similar to a catamaran. These boats were equipped with sails and steered by a long paddle. Traditional voyaging canoes were used to travel and migrate between different islands in Polynesia.
Outrigger canoe surfing the biggest swell in 30 years of Waikiki, Hawaii. Featured Image: Ocean Paddler TV | YouTube
It is estimated based on ethnobotanical evidence that the first voyaging canoes, and with them soon after the smaller outrigger canoe, reached the Hawaiian Islands by 400 CE or earlier. For context, European sailors did not reach the Pacific Ocean until the 16th century at which point most of the islands in Polynesia had been settled for hundreds of years.
“While Europeans were sailing close to the coastlines of continents before developing navigational instruments that would allow them to venture onto the open ocean, voyagers from Fiji, Tonga, and Samoa began to settle islands in an ocean area of over 10 million square miles,” Dennis Kawaharada explained in The Discovery and Settlement of Polynesia.
The outrigger canoe today
Closer to the present, the Outrigger Canoe Club was started in 1908. Shortly thereafter, the Hui Nalu (Club of the Waves) was started as a similar club for Native Hawaiians by Duke Kahanamouko. Kahanamouko was not only the founder of Hui Nalu but also a proud member of the Outrigger Canoe Club according to Hawaiian Paddlesports; the two clubs began a friendly competition.
Today, outrigger canoe enthusiasts gather to race, play, and celebrate the legacy of the outrigger canoe in the Hawaiian Islands. Oh, and occasionally they get lucky and catch a 30 ft (9 m) wave.
Moments of glassy magic, like during this sunset on Loch Lomond, Scotland, made the Lawson family's decision to carry two inflatable SUPs on their yearlong adventure totally worth it. | Feature photo: Todd Lawson
Respite from the searing summer heatwave was a mere 12 kilometers away—a small lake we could reach in only 33 minutes, according to Guida, the voice coming through our helmets via Google Maps. We named the voice as she was our trusty guide as we navigated from Ireland to India during a yearlong family SUP and moto mega-adventure. We had hoped to end another long day in the saddle with a much-needed paddle and swim to wash off the day’s dust and road grime.
From Ireland to India: One family’s 51,000KM SUP and moto odyssey
“Let’s push on,” I said as the road became rougher. “We’re not that far away; it’ll be worth it.” As we pressed on, the rocks became bigger, the ruts deeper. Fun stuff on an unladen motorcycle but not so much in the searing Spanish heat with fully loaded bikes, one with a sidecar carrying two inflatable SUPs.
“I don’t want to turn back,” said Seanna, our 10-year-old daughter. “We’re almost there. Let’s get to the lake and swim, it’s so hot.”
We hopped back on, bouncing along the rocks and ruts, rolling through the thirsty pine forest—down, down, down in the direction of Guida’s mysterious lake. But when the road became steeper, the ruts even deeper and cell service cut out, we knew the consequences could be dire if we kept going.
Finally, my wife, Christina, waved the red flag when her back tire sunk into a rut about two feet deep. We’d have to turn around and make the dreaded backtrack to the main road before things got really bad. The smell of defeat rippled across the road. Dipping our paddles into this lake would remain a mirage-like dream. Sometimes, plans fall apart. Going with the flow is a lesson the road keeps teaching us and is all part of the adventure.
The perfect camp scene unfolds on the grassy shoreline of the Wild Atlantic Way in Galway, Ireland. | Photo: Todd Lawson
Freedom on two wheels
I’m not sure many motorcycle travelers are packing inflatable paddleboards, but it’s a niche that could and should keep growing. We brought paddleboards for the same reason we love to live behind the handlebars of a motorcycle—ultimate mobility and freedom.
On our yearlong motorcycle journey, we carried two inflatable SUPs and the search for water defined our 51,000-kilometer journey. We called our journey Threedom, and it was an incredible family adventure that tested the resilience of mom, dad and daughter every single day.
Before our daughter was born, Christina and I traveled extensively on motorcycles. On two major overland trips, we covered 67,000 kilometers through more than 40 countries. Back in those days, when we came across a lake, lagoon or slice of ocean paradise with rolling waves, all we could do was wish we had a canoe or kayak to explore with or rent overpriced, by-the-hour paddlecraft.
Now we had the perfect bikes—a 2021 Royal Enfield Himalayan and a 2021 Ural Gear Up—and a sidecar we named the Mule, so we figured, why not bring the fun with us? While dreaming, planning and researching for almost three years, we devised an efficient system to carry our 200 pounds of gear, which included our camping kit, paddling gear, spare tools and clothes, plus our daughter. Then we researched the best places on the European continent where we could set up camp for a couple of nights, inflate the boards and paddle. We put red dots on the map, ticked them off while on the road, and added more along the way.
The first of those red dots was on the west coast of Ireland, the very first night of our trip. We pitched camp atop a vast network of rabbit burrows and waited for the sun to pierce the cloudy skies. The white-capped ocean wasn’t terribly inviting, but after so much time packing and planning to make this trip a reality, how could we not celebrate with a cold-water experience along the Wild Atlantic Way?
Moments of glassy magic, like during this sunset on Loch Lomond, Scotland, made the Lawson family’s decision to carry two inflatable SUPs on their yearlong adventure totally worth it. | Feature photo: Todd Lawson
The isles of Scotland’s Loch Lomond were next, where our ultimate transition transpired—all our gear from bikes to boards in less than an hour. After a windy, wobbly crossing from the mainland to Inchtavannach island, the perfect campsite presented itself. It was a protected forest with a beautiful, grassy area to spread out on, lots of firewood and not a soul in sight. As we had plenty of time and sunny skies to paddle under, we spent our days circumnavigating the small islands surrounding our camp and meeting strange locals. One morning, it was a gang of long-haired Highland cows, and the next, a wildly out-of-place wallaby sunning itself on the seaside rocks.
As we headed south, we hit more red paddle dots on our map, including in England, Wales, the west coast of France, and finally down into the clear, warm waters of the Mediterranean in southern Spain. The paddle dots on our map took us through Morocco, Greece, Italy, and as far east as the coast of the Mediterranean Sea in Turkey before a major engine failure made us ditch the bikes for a time and find other transportation into India.
Family vagabonding
Traveling for so long meant tapping into the art form known as dirtbaggery. We cooked over open flame to save fuel, cooked in hotel rooms instead of eating out to save money, washed our clothes in sinks, ate cheap cheese-and-bread picnics alongside the road, wild camped under the stars, and stayed with generous strangers who took us in, who we called road angels.
“We’ll keep this sign forever,” says writer Todd Lawson, pictured here with his family in Lisbon, Portugal. | Photo: Todd Lawson
Paddling was a bonus to the journey. Traveling by motorcycle, with everything you need in a few saddlebags strapped behind you, is the fuel that feeds the fire of adventure for us. It’s a wildly self-sufficient world we wanted to introduce Seanna to. At age 10, she was old enough to remember everything, yet still young enough to hang with her parents 24/7. Bikes and boards allowed for the best of both worlds, a surf-and-turf adventure unifying our primary interests—motorcycles and paddleboards—into one primary passion: adventure travel.
We knew this journey through 29 countries would remain with our daughter for the rest of her life, so we wanted to make it as memorable as possible, and being able to paddle and swim in as many places as our route allowed was icing on the cake. Camping, hiking and fishing were part of the package when we needed time away from the bikes and allowed us to immerse ourselves in the landscapes and culture of Europe and Asia. Along the way, our daughter received the ultimate education in humanity, geography, adaptation, compassion, reliance and what true adventure can teach one’s soul.
Todd Lawson is an avid traveler, paddler and a publisher at Mountain Life Media. His first book, Inside the Belly of an Elephant: A Motorcycle Journey of Loss, Legacy, and Ultimate Freedom, was released in 2023.
This article was first published in Issue 72 of Paddling Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
Moments of glassy magic, like during this sunset on Loch Lomond, Scotland, made the Lawson family’s decision to carry two inflatable SUPs on their yearlong adventure totally worth it. | Feature photo: Todd Lawson
Cyril Derrumaux arriving in in Hilo, Hawaii, September 2022 after crossing the Mid-Pacific. | Feature Photo: Tom Gomes
Ocean expedition paddler Cyril Derreumaux departs December 19, 2024 to cross the Atlantic Ocean. Derreumaux will depart from La Restinga, The Canary Islands with the goal of reaching the easternmost Lesser Antilles archipelago on the other side of the Atlantic Ocean by kayak. The journey will total an estimated 3,000 miles and will be completely human-powered, solo, and unsupported.
Derreumaux’s departure date was initially set for Dec 17 but was delayed slightly for a better weather window.
Derreumaux’s previous journeys
In September 2022, Derreumaux completed his first solo ocean crossing, a 2,761 mile (4,444 kilometer) journey from California to Hawaii across the mid-Pacific in a total of 91 days and nine hours at sea. This journey, much like his upcoming crossing, was completely human-powered, solo, and unsupported.
Cyril Derrumaux arriving in in Hilo, Hawaii, September 2022 after crossing the Mid-Pacific. | Feature Photo: Tom Gomes
Derreumaux first ventured into the world of outrigger canoeing and kayaking in his early 30s after a move to California to follow his profession in the wine business. In California, Derreumaux found the Great Pacific Race and joined a four-man team to row from California to Hawaii. The trip earned the team the Guinness Record for the fastest ocean team rowing crossing at 39 days and sparked Derreumaux’s interest in big solo crossings and endurance paddling.
The first 19 days are the hardest, battling seasickness, sleep deprivation and adjusting to new foods and the pace of paddling according to Derreumaux.
While at sea, potable water is made using a water maker or desalinator and most of Derreumaux’s food is freeze-dried or dehydrated. En route, Derreumaux will burn close to 8,000 calories a day and ingest 6,000 calories daily, leading to an average daily deficit of 2,000 calories. This amounts to an expected weight loss of 20-25 lbs, weight that the paddler worked to gain in advance of his departure.
Throughout the course of his ocean crossings, Derreumaux typically wakes up before dawn for breakfast and begins his paddling at sunrise. From here, he paddles 4-5 hours before breaking for lunch, then paddles another 4-5 hours. Around sunset, Derreumaux prepares for the night. Throughout the night, he wakes up every two hours to check on the boat.
Derremaux’s kayak is a 23-ft (7 meter) boat with a fully sealable self-righting cabin. The kayak is human propulsion only, by both kayak paddle and a system to pedal by feet to alternate muscle groups used along the journey. Fully loaded, the boat will weigh 800 lbs.
In total, Derreumaux’s upcoming journey will span an estimated 3,000 miles / 4,800 kilometers / 2,800 nautical miles and an expected 80-90 days.
It was our third consecutive lunch of pitas and cheese and we were ready for a distraction. We had pulled up at a narrows about two-thirds of the way down Nunavut’s Coppermine River. The bank on the far side was splattered with head-high willow shrubs and Barb was adamant that there was a caribou grazing among them.
“There,” she said, “just to the left of the little clearing.”
The rest of us munched away, squinting across the river and assuring her we also saw it before realizing what we thought were antlers were just another pair of willow branches.
This went on for 15 minutes, until the pitas were put away for another day, before Mike declared, “It must be a caribou. I can smell it.”
To the polar sea. | Feature photo: François Léger-Savard
Mike has admirable olfactory abilities, but this was too much. I was about to suggest he was smelling himself when I caught a whiff of what I imagined caribou breath must smell like.
Ally turned around and laughed. Not 20 meters behind us four caribou were mowing down tufts of lichen. We could see every whisker, and hear every gum smack—I had assumed the noise was Mike eating dessert. It’s a good thing we had a large store of pitas, because if we had been relying on keen senses to deliver us food from the land we would have gone hungry.
I couldn’t help but feel out of my element up there. The conventions that time and space follow down south, even on a remote river in the boreal, have no purchase in the Arctic. With the land frozen so much of the year, cycles such as growth and decay grind to a crawl while seasonal imperatives like spring runoffs and animal migrations take on a determined frenzy. It is hard to know what to expect, even hard to know how to adjust your eyes to a landscape that is so barren and hard to read it turns what you thought would be a half-hour hike into a half-day trek.
If you gotta go, go now
That was 10 years ago, and I haven’t been back to the Arctic, a fact that hit me in the gut last week when a couple I know asked me out for a beer and counsel about their plan to paddle the Coppermine.
They were nervous, and had reason to be. They had paddled a handful of rivers, but their whitewater history wasn’t one that begged for a biography. The weather in late August could well be punishing. With only one canoe in their party they would have no one to collect pieces for them after a dump.
As we batted around these caveats I couldn’t help but wonder if I was erring on the side of caution so I would feel better about my inability to muster a return trip above the 66th parallel.
As we often recount in these pages—call it our editorial mission—paddling trips on the whole are getting shorter and shorter. Fewer people are making the sort of time commitment needed to do extraordinary trips. Everyone has reasons. I know I have mine. I just don’t know if they are good enough.
My friends emailed me last week to tell me they had weighed the risks and had decided to paddle the Coppermine. They may become stormbound for a few days. They may dump and lose equipment—or worse. One fate that won’t befall them, however, is they’ll never have to sit on a patio sipping a beer and mumbling sorry excuses for how they didn’t go north that summer because they were too busy.
Recirc celebrates our favorite stories from the first 25 years of Rapid, Adventure Kayak and Canoeroots magazines. Author Ian Merringer was the editor of Canoeroots when this article ran in 2006. In 2022, Ian enjoyed a couple glorious weeks running northern B.C.’s Stikine River.
This article was first published in Issue 72 of Paddling Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
To the polar sea. | Feature photo: François Léger-Savard
Many a paddler has had an encounter with a bear in the wild. Whether our favorite furry friend is poking around your bear hang at night, or encountered from the water it always makes for a memorable story at the… bear minimum.
From grizzlies chasing kayaks to polar bear run-ins, here are the best kayak vs bear videos on YouTube:
BEAR: On the Alaskan Coast, a bear breaks a kayak leaving paddler left to swim for help.
During a solo kayak trip from Ketchikan, Alaska to Petersburg, Alaska, kayaker Mary Maley’s boat was mauled by a bear. In one of the most viral paddling bear videos of all time, Maley shouts at the bear in an ultimately unsuccessful attempt to scare it off.
The video begins five minutes after the attack began, and the bear continued to eat her kayak after the video concludes.
BEAR: Grizzly chases kayaker across a river
Near Squamish, British Columbia, watch as a kayaker is chased by a Grizzly bear on the Elaho River.
DRAW: After observing an uninterested polar bear, kayakers lose dignity to walrus
While sea kayaking in the Arctic, Steve Leonard and Jason Roberts have a serene encounter with a polar bear only to be attacked by a walrus! Jump to the 2:30 minute mark to get to the meat of the video.
KAYAKER: Paddlers successfully scare off a polar bear without further incident.
On a sea kayak expedition in Greenland, Steve Backshall and his team have a frightening encounter with a polar bear in search of food.
In this video, the crew is well-equipped for bear encounters and ultimately grateful that the bear scares away in the end and they don’t have to resort to methods of self defense that could harm the bear.
Feature Image: While on a kayaking expedition in Greenland, Steve Buckshall and his team encounter a polar bear. PBS | YouTube
The Ivindo River winds through the Gabon Rainforest, with elephants and hippos, thick forest, and a maze of rapids untouched by whitewater paddlers—until recently.
Four-man elite kayak team of Adrian Mattern, Dane Jackson, Kalob Grady and the late Bren Orton tackled a 90-mile (145 km) expedition on the river with the goal of the first descent of four major rapids on the Ivindo River in Gabon, a country on the central African Atlantic coast bordered by Cameroon, Equatorial Guinea and the Congo. The Red Bull film Gabon Uncharted documents the depth of their drive to complete the expedition.
Meet the SEND collective
The team, self-named the SEND Collective, includes some of the top names in whitewater kayaking and as the film cheekily notes, most definitely the top names on whitewater kayaking Instagram.
Dane Jackson is often called the GOAT (greatest of all time) whitewater kayaker. Kalob Grady grew up on the banks of the Ottawa River and is now the head coach for World Class Academy. Bren Orton was the first European to paddle the 128 ft (almost 40m) Big Banana Falls in Mexico. In May 2024, Orton tragically passed away while kayaking with a group on the Melezza River in the Swiss Alps.
For the last member of the team, Adrian Mattern, the driving force behind the trip, the Ivindo has been a childhood dream to follow the expedition of Olaf ‘Big O’ Obsommer in 2007. On Obsommer’s Ivindo expedition they portaged most of the major rapids due to a lack of local knowledge and resources.
This attempt is different—with new technology and beta from Obsommer’s 2007 trip, the SEND collective seems set up for success. The ultimate game-changer this time around boils down to drones. Not only useful for capturing videos from above, drones allowed the paddlers to scout the rivers from the skies, virtually creating an aerial map of the area.
Is there more to the SEND Collective than big water and money shots?
Gabon Uncharted: Sending Ivindo Falls is not just another big water film. The film, produced by videographer David Arnaud who narrates and seems slightly skeptical of the SEND collective and their Instagram hype, on one hand sets out to make an epic whitewater expedition video.
But the film also asks a question—when you peel back the photos of epic drops, flips and thousands of likes, what’s left?
In the film, we watch the SEND collective pore over route plans and water level data prepared by Mattern. The SEND collective spends three days inspecting the area, and meets with local park rangers of Ivindo National Park, as they take extra care to minimize the impact of their expedition on the environment and pay astute attention to their own safety in the context of an extreme wilderness sport.
“We were told that there are most likely, almost certainly, perhaps not that many crocodiles in this area,” Orton jokes as they begin their journey.
The first major rapids on the Ivindo fan out through the forest in a labyrinthine rapids complex over a mile wide. On this first send, Arnaud describes the SEND collective as “joyful kids on an awesome playground.”
While there’s plenty of exciting big water shoots in the film, just as interesting, if not more so, is the group’s approach to risk management. In a move that seems to surprise the filmmaker, the SEND collective of Instagram fame unanimously chooses to play it safe and portage one of the large, iconic waterfalls they came to descend.
“Too often, group dynamics, biases, and egos lead to stupid decisions. Here it’s the opposite,” narrates Arnaud. “The SEND team navigates these pitfalls with grace and humility.”
Throughout the film we watch the SEND collective run incredible rapids, read their favorite books and get bug bites. We also watch as they help team member Mattern come to terms with the idea that one of the falls he’s dreamed of paddling is likely unrunnable and delicately handle the line between safety and the drive to push their skills for “the send.”
What’s compelling about Gabon Uncharted isn’t that you’re watching top whitewater kayaking athletes do inspiring athletic things—it’s that you’re watching top whitewater kayaking athletes work as a team, manage risk as a team, and ultimately just be people in a way that is inspiring to paddlers wherever they are with their own “send.”
Cute today; wreaking honking havoc at your local launch tomorrow. | Feature photo: Alan Poelman
In three decades of kayaking, the only injury I’ve suffered wasn’t from a pounding surf landing, a strainer or an angry grizzly bear. It came at the hands of Branta canadensis, the Canada goose, terror of kayak launches and golf courses. Carrying my kayak across the dock, I hydroplaned on a slimy layer of liquified goose poop and went stern-over-teakettle, landing hard on my wrist. Of all the critters kayakers encounter—hatch-opening raccoons, bloodsucking swarms of mosquitos or sand-lurking stingrays—geese are our true nemesis.
The hairline fracture in my wrist was just one instance when my goose was cooked by the feathered scourge of city parks and shorelines. One goose guarded its bay on San Juan Island with such ferocity that as soon as we rounded the point, it sallied forth from its beach hissing. After a few days of us paddling by twice daily, it had enough and came in low and fast to bite our sterns. On a nearby island, a goose had set up its nest next to the outhouse door and assaulted anyone nearby, wings flapping, neck extended, honking obscenities. Its biological imperative to reproduce conflicted with our biological imperative to, well, you know.
Cute today; wreaking honking havoc at your local launch tomorrow. | Feature photo: Alan Poelman
We scurried past when we needed to, and the next round of honking would signal the outhouse was free. And there are countless times when I’ve pulled up to a campsite of soft green grass, perfect for strolling barefoot or lounging after long miles in the kayak, only to find the grassy lawn was only 60 percent grass and 40 percent goose poop.
What’s their problem?
Like most species that have become hassles to humans, geese are problems because we create the perfect environment for them. According to the Canadian Wildlife Service, North America has at least seven million Canada geese. Their population increased by seven percent annually between 1966 and 2019, largely due to favorable conditions thanks to urbanization.
Geese like big open areas near water, where they can feast in big family groups, see predators coming and make for the water for a quick escape. This jives perfectly with our love of grassy lawns near water and idyllic campsites for kayakers.
The roots of the conflict between Homo sapiens and Branta canadensis run deep. Those open landscapes geese love, with a view near water, are also hired-wired into humanity’s evolutionary history from our origins in Africa’s savanna. John Falk, a professor at Oregon State University, showed photos of different landscapes to people worldwide, including those who had never seen a wet savanna along the shore of a large body of water. Yet, everyone selected it as the ideal landscape for finding food and water, and avoiding ambushes by saber-toothed cats and other Paleolithic predators. Geese love the same thing; of course, we come into conflict.
The geese are winning. Attempts to keep them from pooping all over our docks, fields and campsites have involved noisemakers, wooden cutouts of coyotes, bullets, poison, dogs and even robot dogs. They’ve all failed. The geese are undefeated.
If you can’t beat ’em…
Faced with a losing battle, I’ve tried to make friends. When I led kayak tours, a goose family near our dock would inevitably charge my tour groups. One day, we encountered a squawking, panicked gosling separated from the family. We carted the caterwauling kiddo on a sprayskirt back to its home cove, where the family came to claim him. Did it result in any sort of detente? Not a chance. The goose-on-kayaker harassment continued all summer.
But our cold war with geese is more than a territorial squabble. We hate geese because they’re just like us. They hang out in family groups, eat a lot, make a mess, travel great distances by air and love waterfront property. Except they’re better at it than we are.
“Geese mate for life with very low ‘divorce’ rates, and pairs remain together throughout the year,” says the Cornell Lab of Ornithology. Family groups remain together on migration and fly great distances without burning fossil fuels. They’re smart enough to let us build their waterfront property for them and then move in and make themselves comfortable. They just might be smarter than we are.
Neil Schulman kayaks, writes, photographs and tries to avoid stepping in goose poop in Portland, Oregon.
This article was first published in Issue 72 of Paddling Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
Cute today; wreaking honking havoc at your local launch tomorrow. | Feature photo: Alan Poelman
A seal's-eye-view of the San Diego paddleboard scene. | Feature photo: Ana Ramirez
More than a decade ago, when I moved to San Diego, the bays and ocean afforded me the opportunity to access a paddling lifestyle. At first kayaking was my fix, but then I gravitated towards standup paddleboarding because of the higher viewpoints it provides. Plus, you can sit or kneel while paddling, offering a variety of angles.
What am I viewing? Wildlife. Mission and San Diego Bays are home to myriad wildlife and I know that every time I glide across the water, I’m going to observe the animal kingdom. One of my favorite memories is of a gull that seemingly flew directly over my shoulder to land on a small dock. On that dock were two smaller gulls, fledglings it turned out. In a moment of time, I watched as the adult gull regurgitated sardines onto the deck and then assisted in getting them into the mouths of their young. Cycle of life, I thought, as I slowly paddled on the water’s surface.
Mission Bay San Diego. | Photo: Ana Ramirez
The best places to standup paddleboard in San Diego according to a local
Mission Bay
San Diego’s Mission Bay consists of approximately 27 miles of shoreline, 19 of which are sandy beaches perfect for a stop. The bay itself is comprised of some 2000 water acres and is part of the larger Mission Bay Park, which totals about 4000 acres of man-made saltwater bay and recreational grounds. There is also a channel that provides access to the Pacific Ocean.
Mission Bay serves as a place for paddlers of all kinds, as well as kiters, anglers, water and jet skiers, and boat enthusiasts, among others. Yes, it can be a busy place, but if you get out on the water in the early morning or dusk hours, or during the off-season between October and April, SUPing on Mission Bay is a paddler’s delight complete with aquatic and aerial wildlife and distant views of rising foothills and roller coasters.
The author heading for the water. | Photo: Ana Ramirez
Where to launch your paddleboard on Mission Bay
There are numerous put-in spots around the bay, but I prefer the public parking at Bahia Point. It is a little less traveled than other better-known areas, andhas public restrooms.
From Bahia Point you can go north into the larger bay area, creating longer routes that include several coves. Paddling all the way to the northern terminus, which is a sub-bay area called Sail Bay, you can then go along the eastern shoreline, watching for rays and crabs in the grasses and sandy bottoms.
You can continue on, going under and past the Art and Anne McDaniel Bridge (Ingraham Street) in the direction of Crown Point. Watch for flocks of California least tern flying overhead as you paddle. They are a protected species under the U.S. Endangered Species Act and some sections of land around the bay are off limits to human activity to protecting nesting. These are clearly signed and visible from the water. All told you can make a short trip through a few marinas in cove that’s around 1.5 miles or up and around to Crown Point and back for a more than four-mile loop.
Heron savoring a baitfish. | Photo: Ana Ramirez
If you are in it for a longer day, to the east is Fiesta Island, though it is not a true island, meaning you cannot paddle all the way around it. Check the map closely, determining which coves you many want to go check out, but noting that if you do paddle in the direction of the eastern side of the faux island, you will have to work your way back out and around to the open water of the bay. You could easily stretch a trip from Bahia to Fiesta Island and back up to eight miles depending on how deep along the eastern shore of Fiesta you’d like to go.
As you travel back to the McDaniel Bridge area, you can also work your way along the eastern shore of Vacation Isle by going south along it. The isle is a popular circumnavigation route for paddlers, offering several beautiful beaches for resting and refueling. As you paddle around it and come up and around the western shore watch for a sea lion or two in the water, as they are often seen in this area. In early 2024, a juvenile grey whale also spotted hanging around this area for a few weeks.
Worth the stop
Beach your SUP just north of the little marina on the western shore of Vacation Isle, maybe keep your paddle with you, bring your valuables, and walk on over to the Barefoot Bar and Grill for a bite.
A seal’s-eye-view of the San Diego paddleboard scene. | Photo: Ana Ramirez
For experienced paddleboarders seeking an adventurous trip from the Mission Bay Bahia Point parking area, go south and make your way to the Entrance Channel. Follow the inlet out into the Pacific Ocean, being cautious of motorboat traffic.
Once you exit the inlet you’ll be beyond the surf unless it is a big swell day. Turn “left” and go south past Ocean Beach, the Ocean Beach Pier, and to Sunset Cliffs—a 3.5 mile trip one way. Watch for dolphins, and if you are super lucky during whale migration (December through April) you might see a grey whale or three, as upwards of 15,000 – 20,000 of them migrate south and then back north along the San Diego coast.
On a clear day, looking south, you will even spot the Coronado Islands (not to be confused with San Diego’s Coronado Island) in Mexican waters.
Get after the magic hours. | Photo: Ana Ramirez
San Diego Bay
San Diego Bay is another SUP-friendly location in the city environs. Locally, the southern part of it is called “South Bay,” which is the area I prefer to paddle.
Where to launch your paddleboard on San Diego Bay
To paddle the South Bay of San Diego Bay, I recommend going to a put-in at a little spit of sand right next to the Coronado Skate Park on Coronado Island. When you are coming over the bridge from the city, look down to your right as you are nearing the end of the bridge and you will see the small beach. Park your car in the public parking area in Tidelands Park. Get as close to the skate park as you can to shorten the distance for carrying your SUP.
San Diego Bay paddleboard routes
From the beach, you can paddle south into the wide open “South Bay” area. I suggest keeping to the Pacific Ocean side, which tends to be less trafficked with boats. This open bay stretches on for seven miles.
If you paddle north from the beach, you will get great views of the city skyline. Continuing north you will be in the vicinity of the naval base, with distant views of Point Loma peninsula in front of you. In 1769, the Spanish sailed into this area of the bay, home to the native Kumeyaay, who had already been living in the San Diego region for more than 10,000 years before colonization.
The northern end of San Diego Bay can be quite active with boats and even Navy ships. If you do paddle in and around the Shelter Island area (also not a true island), a good destination is the Shelter Island Pier, which is more than five miles paddle from the Coronado Skate Park.
Worth the stop
When you reach the Shelter Island Pier, go around to the back side of the pier. Look for the small landing dock. Use your leash to hitch your SUP to the dock, and ask if it is okay to keep it there for a maybe an hour. If not, paddle over to the shore, scramble up the rocks/boulders and make your way up onto the pier. The reason you’re here: Fathom Bistro. The bistro has one of the best beer selections in all of San Diego, all of the sausages are hand-made in-house using all-natural casings. This is a spot not to be missed.
You could easily spend the day scoping out marinas and coves. | Photo: Ana Ramirez
The Mission Bay Aquatic Center is a unique venture jointly owned and operated by San Diego State University’s Associated Students and University of California San Diego Recreation. They rent standup paddleboard gear, as well as for other watersports including kayaking, surfing, and sailing. The MBAC is open to the public and also offers various classes you can attend.
SUP Coronado
SUP Coronado has served San Diego Bay/Coronado Island paddleboarders since 2008. Rental wise, they have everything you need for a day of paddleboarding on San Diego Bay. They also offer guided tours.
A seal’s-eye-view of the San Diego paddleboard scene. | Feature photo: Ana Ramirez
On September 11, 2024 Kyle Parker set the new record for the Fastest Known Time (FKT) for solo canoeing the Wisconsin River, paddling the 430-mile river in five days, 19 hours and 57 minutes. While Parker was in a solo canoe, he was quick to share that the record in many ways was a team effort.
The Wisconsin River is the longest river in the state, running from its border in Michigan in the northeast to where it joins with the Mississippi. Parker had long been interested in paddling the Wisconsin River, and decided to go for an FKT attempt when he struggled to find the time in his schedule to paddle the entire river.
“It’s kind of in my backyard.” Parker shared. “I have a full time job, so while trying to balance how much vacation time I can take off, and when will be the best time, I started looking into how fast it could actually be done.”
Training for the Wisconsin River FKT
In summer 2024, Parker reached out to the previous FKT holder, Dr. Joe Spenneta, whose own FKT came out to around six days and three hours, to learn more about paddling the Wisconsin River for speed, and Spenneta encouraged Parker to go for the record and offered guidance on everything from gear needed to river beta.
While Parker had a fair amount of experience canoeing having worked summers at an outfitter in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness, endurance paddling was new to him, but Spenetta coached him through it.
In order to secure the record, Parker would need to average 73 miles a day. Factor in time needed to eat, sleep and portage— 73 miles a day is no easy task. Over the next three months, training came down to getting on the water as much as possible.
“After work I would go out for an hour or two, sometimes three or four times a week,” Parker explained. He would tackle longer paddles on weekends, with his first long paddle beginning at 20 miles.
“Starting out at 20 miles on that very first long paddle… I was like actually this is really hard. I don’t know if I can do this,” Parker said.
Kyle Parker sets new FKT for the Wisconsin River in a solo canoe. Feature image courtesy Dylan Durst.
As the weeks went by Parker added 10 miles a week, modeling his training after how runners train for marathons. Three weeks before his attempt he did his longest training paddle at 63 miles on the Wisconsin River. It took him over 36 hours.
“I was way behind on what I actually needed to do, but during that time I also had some more gear on me… a tarp, a sleeping bag, so about ten pounds of gear, self-supported. That was another eye-opener.”
Two weeks before his record attempt Parker tapered his training form 130 miles per week all the way down to zero miles in the five days before the river.
Support team, including previous record holder, plays key role in success
Parker met Dylan Durst while working at an outfitter in the Boundary Waters Canoe Area Wilderness. It was here that both Parker and Durst began to take canoeing more seriously, spending days off challenging each other and coworkers to see how many lakes they could paddle in a day. Durst went on to become one of Parker’s regular paddling buddies, and was the main support person on his Wisconsin River FKT.
Support from Durst included essentially everything off the water, including all the food and water drops, finding a place to spend the night and helping film so that the only thing Parker had to worry about was getting to the next portage or checkpoint.
“That’s honestly the biggest factor to my success,” said Parker.
For the five days and 19 hours of Parker’s paddle, Durst would drive ahead and walk the portage beforehand to scout to make sure the land portion of Parker’s journey went as smoothly as possible.
Around the Wisconsin Dells, Parker was warned by another paddler that there was construction ahead and he likely wouldn’t be able to use the portage. Rather than paddle back upstream, Parker opted to keep paddling and risk it.
“I get to the portage and there’s an excavator and a barge, and a bunch of guys there, and then I see Dylan,” Parker shared. “He’s just like, sitting up there talking to the construction workers.”
In scouting ahead for Parker, Durst already had eyes on the construction and simply explained that his friend was going for the FKT on the Wisconsin River in a solo canoe. He asked if they would be willing to hold off work for a little bit to let Parker through.
“They just stopped their work for like a half an hour and waited for me,” Parker said. “Without that I could’ve had to paddle back upstream.”
Durst also helped with cooking food, setting up the tent, helping Parker pace, and any logistics along the way, including communicating with previous record holder Spenneta for beta on the river ahead.
Spenneta not only gave Parker guidance the entire way through training but walked Parker and Durst through all the routes as they encountered them, tracking Parker’s route live along the way.
“It was almost like Joe was our eyes in the sky… Joe would text Dylan to say okay, the next section is going to be really fast and then it’s gonna slow down and then there’s trees on this side,” Parker explained. “Everything he said was spot on. He’s done the river about a dozen times in his life.”
On September 11, 2024 after five days, 19 hours and 57 minutes of paddling over the course of 430-miles on the Wisconsin River, Parker achieved the time. Later that day, he heard from Spenetta, who congratulated him on the record.
“He said training starts today. You’re in trouble. I’m gonna beat it next year,” Parker shared, laughing. “We’ve got a little friendly rivalry going on. We’ll see what happens next year.”
May the increasingly long odds be ever in your favor. | Feature photo: Caleb Roberts
Permits for the United States’ most iconic river trips are difficult to secure, and it’s no surprise why. Data from the U.S. Forest Service reveals more than 58,000 applications were submitted in 2023 for permits to four of the West’s top rivers: the Middle Fork of the Salmon, the Main Salmon, the Selway and the Snake River’s Hells Canyon section. However, only 1,069 permits were available.
May the increasingly long odds be ever in your favor. | Feature photo: Caleb Roberts
Applications have nearly tripled since 2010 for those four rivers, according to reporting in The Colorado Sun, leaving boaters with increasingly long odds of securing a permit. The most competitive permits were for the Middle Fork of the Salmon River and the Selway River. More than 21,000 boaters applied for 373 permits to float the Middle Fork in 2023. Odds were bleaker on the Selway River, where 10,294 boaters applied for just 62 permits.
It’s competitive outside Idaho, too. In 2023, almost 12,000 boaters applied for 423 permits on the San Juan River in New Mexico and Utah; 11,209 boaters put in for 377 permits on the Green River in Utah; and 18,508 boaters applied for 293 permits on the Yampa River in Colorado.
Permit systems were adopted in the 1970s due to the increasing number of boaters on America’s wild rivers. According to U.S. Forest Service representatives on the River Radius Podcast, 625 private trips ran the Middle Fork in 1962. By 1971, the number rose to 3,250. In the 50 years since, applications have increased by almost 600 percent, while the number of permits issued has stayed comparatively static. Part of the challenge of meeting increased demand is the finite and fragile resources—regulating permits helps keep the rivers wild. Increasing the number of people on the rivers would mean carving out more campsites, as well as increased trash, noise and evidence of use. Increasingly, descending these rivers is truly a once-in-a-lifetime adventure.
Survey says paddlers want a new approach
However, rampant dissatisfaction with the current lottery system led American Whitewater (AW) to survey 1,300 boaters in December 2022. The non-profit’s findings, published in the October 2023 issue of American Whitewater Journal, showed 71 percent of respondents considered their odds of obtaining a permit to be unacceptable, and 60 percent had not secured a permit in the past two years.
Only 10 percent of respondents preferred the current most widely used method for securing permits—equal-odds lottery. Fifty-six percent of respondents favored a new approach: awarding permits in a lottery weighted by number of failed attempts.
The weighted lottery concept isn’t new—it’s simply a lottery system that adjusts an individual’s odds of winning to create a fairer result. After waitlists for floating the Grand Canyon reached 20 years long, a weighted river permit lottery was established in 2006. In the Grand Canyon lottery, a person’s chance of winning a permit is decreased if he or she descended the river in the last five years.
“This survey respondent preference level [for weighted lottery] is a potential opportunity for future discussions of change,” writes AW staffer Kelsey Phillips in the report. “Additionally, these results indicate that respondents were less dissatisfied in the capacity-setting component of river permitting systems, and more concerned with the rationing techniques utilized within them.”
Your best bet to pull a permit
See Paddling Magazine’s guides to the John Day, San Juan, Rogue and Middle Fork of the Salmon rivers and find out what you can do to increase your chances of pulling a permit under the current lottery system.
This article was first published in Issue 71 of Paddling Magazine. Subscribe to Paddling Magazine’s print and digital editions, or browse the archives.
May the increasingly long odds be ever in your favor. | Feature photo: Caleb Roberts
This article was first published in Issue 72 of Paddling Magazine. 
This article was first published in Issue 71 of Paddling Magazine. 