tomales bay

I’d much rather be drinking dirty martinis at the Nick’s Cove boat shack before noon. I’d rather be seasoning each sip with a lick of dried sea spray from my bristly lip. I’d much rather sun the exposed butterfly tattoo on my chest than keep up with the election coverage. I’m digging my toes in to fucking off. I’ve spent the past twenty five hours doing just that, and I feel like I’ve done a remarkable job.

There’s something so satisfying, deep down, about french fries and dirty martinis. If you know me you wouldn’t doubt that this combination of salt, potatoes and olives is my special elixir. In fact, a giant bowl of frites and a martini so dirty I hoped the bartender spat in it might just be my last meal on earth if I’m ever presented the choice.

This tradition I’ve made for myself that comes at the end of each kayak camping trip has got to be one of my greatest moves.

This time yesterday I was on the road with Blanca, a truck bed filled with kayaks and camping equipment; the uninhabited side of Tomales bay, only accessible by kayak, my destination. The trip began to a bit of a foreboding tune. Late arrival, choppy waters, thick fog and tides in the favor of me being swept out to sea. As I sit here smashing fries and heinz in the boat shack I try to remember where I first heard about this place. All I can remember though are the painful and joyous memories I’ve buried in to such a remarkable place over the years. This bay, along with this Shack, has experienced a lot of me. I can only imagine how much it’s experienced in its lifetime…likely why it’s so magical.

One hand pokes a wound drunklenly made by the fire last night with an oyster shucker in to the soft part of my palm, while the other hand feels my bowl of fries getting colder with each three finger grab as I wait for my burger to make an appearance.. I take breaks to write with my fry hand…

I packed only some basic pantry staples and sundries with the intent of stopping off at Hog Island, jut a few miles from my launch point. I was able to pack the Yeti with fresh oysters, clams, mussels and Halibut to join me, my wine and my wood for a trip across the bay for dinner.

Thanks to the thick blanket of fog I found myself coming ashore on the wrong beach a couple times before finding the right spot. Luckily I had enough strong IPA in the cockpit of the kayak to shake off the fear of the coming sunset. Exploring the edges of the bay in the fog made each cliff, bay and pool all the more exciting as the features revealed themselves just as they came in to oar’s reach.

I’ll often remark that my inspiration to camp is to cook outside and spoil myself under the stars with my hands alternating between hot fire and cold bottles. On this bay with my toes in the sand is one of my favorite places to indulge in such pleasantries.

The oysters made it safely across the bay, in case you were wondering. Paired with an Australian Pet Nat thanks to Jeune’s bottle shop.

Dinner, after a dozen fresh oysters to myself, was a giant chunk of halibut cooked over the fire in the juices of cherry tomatoes, clams and mussels. Plenty of EVOO in the pan and a chunk of sourdough made it fit for a drunken kayaker.

The morning after; hungover, freezing, and too much of both of those to make moves for coffee or water. Opening the flap of the tent to expose a tranquil, warmly lit bay wiped away the misery.