Leon and I had been thinking of a kayak-camping trip we could take with Grandpa John. Five-year-old Leon had strong opinions about which islands were best for camping, so he got to choose the destination this time.
Leon picked Blake Island, the closest camping island to our home in Seattle. In fact, we would not even have to leave Seattle to begin the trip, because the most convenient launch points for Blake Island are the road-end parks along Beach Drive in West Seattle. For this trip, we used Weather Watch Park, although Constellation Park, Cormorant Cove, Andover Place, or Emma Schmitz would each have worked as well.
Route map. Blake Island is Seattle’s kayak-camping backyard.
From Weather Watch Park to the kayak-campground at the northwestern corner of Blake Island is just under five miles (8 km) each way. Currents in Puget Sound are generally mild, so we made no effort to coordinate our passage with the tides. In the event, we enjoyed both a favorable south-setting current of about half a knot plus a favorable northerly wind of ten to fifteen knots.
The weekend crowd had not yet arrived on Blake Island. In the kayak-campers’ area on the northwestern corner, the only other campers were a couple who had camped the night before and who would return to Seattle early the next morning. Around the corner, in the powerboaters’ area, only half the sites were occupied.
Leon and Grandpa John departing Weather Watch Park, West Seattle. Even at low tide, the carry down to the waterline was not too long.
Leon pointing out airplane. We played a game of “spot the airplane,” but no one could compete with Leon’s sharp eyes.
Grandpa John, Leon, and Alex having lunch on Blake Island. To my mild consternation, Leon consumed no fluids for two straight days other than five eight-ounce (240 ml) cartons of shelf-stable milk.
Leon sneaking up on Grandpa John to steal his hat. Grandpa John was the only one who thought to bring a folding chair, but Leon and I made sure he never got too comfortable.
Leon and Grandpa John. With two adults but no sister around, there was always someone available to play with Leon.
Leon and Grandpa John at sunset. Grandpa John slept out under the stars, as he usually does during summertime camping trips, while Leon and I snuggled up in the tent.
Birds on the water numbered but few, as is usually the case in Washington during August. The only alcids I saw were two pigeon guillemots and three rhinoceros auklets. There were no grebes or loons, and the only sea duck was a single harlequin duck off West Seattle. The only cormorant species was the double-crested.
We did better with the diving birds. There is a shoal off the northwestern tip of Blake Island, where the shallow water attracted Caspian terns, ospreys, and kingfishers. Every few minutes, some species or another would plunge into the water, often emerging with a fish, sometimes emerging with nothing but soaked feathers.
Caspian tern off Blake Island. The terns appeared to enjoy the highest success rate of any of the diving birds.
Osprey diving off Blake Island. We witnessed five strikes by ospreys, only one of which was successful in catching a fish.
Brown-headed cowbird, Blake Island. This species was the most numerous of the land birds we saw this trip.
Western sandpipers, Blake Island. By late August each year, the shorebirds’ fall migration is already underway.
Western sandpiper at sunset. The shorebirds were most numerous during intermediate tide but mostly absent during high and low tides.
Least sandpiper at sunset. Eighty percent of the peeps were westerns, the rest leasts.
Leon invented all sorts of games. His favorite was “Sand Is Lava,” in which the participants may not set foot on the beach but rather must leap across the driftwood from log to log.
The driftwood also inspired Leon to create a kid-sized driftwood fort. Grandpa John and he hauled over a great pile of sticks and logs, and we built Leon a tipi-style beach fort. We made sure to leave plenty of windows and gaps so the “knights” inside the fort could shoot “arrows and spears” at any attackers.
Leon with stick. The wind blew a steady ten to fifteen knots all day and night, cooling the air on what would otherwise have been a hot, sunny summer’s day.
Fort Kid, Blake Island. Leon has a strategist’s eye for the siting of forts, because Blake Island is only a couple miles from the real-life nineteenth-century forts at Middle Point and Beans Point.
Grandpa John packing kayak, Blake Island. Low tide meant a longer carry but still an easy launch.
Leon digging in sand with paddle. I mostly paddle a fiberglass kayak these days, but I still break out the old, gray skin-on-frame folder every couple of years, just for nostalgia’s sake.
Grandpa John and Leon paddling past Bainbridge Island. Leon soon fell asleep, lulled by the warm sun and the rocking motion of the waves.
Paddling toward Space Needle, Seattle. From across the sound, it was difficult to pick out our landing beach from amid all the residential construction.
During our afternoon crossing back to West Seattle, a fifteen-knot northeasterly wind picked up, pushing us south when we wanted to go north. It wasn’t a problem in my nimble little thirteen-footer, but it was more wind than Grandpa John could handle in the unwieldy, 110-pound double that we lovingly call “the Great Satan.”
Grandpa John and Leon ended up blown about 1,200 meters south of the landing beach. Unable to reach any of the waterfront parks to their north, they took out on a private beach fronting the home of a lovely couple, Lynn and Terry, who generously allowed them to unload the Great Satan in their yard. Grandpa John’s cell phone was in my boat, so he had no way to tell me where he and Leon had come ashore. I loaded up the car at Weather Watch Park and drove south along Beach Drive, stopping to check every landing beach along the way, until I spotted the two of them walking up the road to meet me.
We loaded the Great Satan and the rest of the gear into the car and drove back to Baban and Grandpa John’s house, where Leon drank a glass of ice water while he regaled Baban with the tales of our adventures.
—Alex Sidles