We vacation in Corolla often, and three of my mystery novels are set on the Outer Banks (Murder at Whalehead, Murder at Hatteras, and Murder on the Outer Banks).
In the late 1800s a large lodge was erected on the island and became the base for the Monkey Island Hunting Club in the 1920s. The club's membership, mostly the rich and powerful, included Charles A. Penn, an American Tobacco Company magnate. The building has long since been abandoned and is now enshrouded with Sabal Minor palms, live oak trees, and thick shrubbery. The island is currently a part of the Currituck National Wildlife Refuge and is inhabited by hundreds of wading birds, osprey, and water moccasins.
Last week while on vacation in Corolla, my son, Joseph, convinced me to rent kayaks and paddle out to Monkey Island. Although I read several online posts warning readers that kayaking to Monkey Island is a bad idea, I figured what the heck--it could be a good cross training day.
We began our journey at the public boat launch ramp located on the Whalehead Club grounds in Corolla. Joseph and his buddy, John, paddled a two-man kayak, and I managed a bright red single. I discovered quickly why online posters warned against this excursion.
About a quarter mile out into the Currituck Sound, I noticed the waves tossed my little kayak around like a toy boat. Several times when they slapped the side of the kayak, I almost tipped over. After about ten minutes I learned to angle into the waves, roll with them, and still manage to paddle at the same time. With two people on the oars, Joseph and John quickly pulled away from me.
When we cut between the shore and a small marshy island, the waves eased up, but then I saw it. A large dark gray dorsal fin rose up out of the water about 20 yards ahead of me. I immediately stopped paddling. My heart thumped into my throat. I wanted to shout out to Joseph and John, but they were fifty yards ahead of me. Besides that, I didn't want the creature to know I was there. Surely that can't be a shark, I thought. Not on the sound side. But then I remembered hearing stories about bull sharks, one of the most dangerous species of shark. They have no problem surviving in brackish sound waters or even swimming upstream into fresh water rivers. Slowly the huge triangular fin sliced through the water directly in front of me and then disappeared below the surface.
In the next few minutes I discovered how fast and hard I could paddle. I actually caught the other kayak and passed them on the way to Monkey Island, about a two and a half-mile journey. Joseph and John told me the waves were so bad their kayak had begun to fill up with water, and they had difficulty steering. I'm sure this was true, but adrenalin from my shark encounter must have boosted my speed.
When we arrived at the island, we had to go ashore to empty the water out of our kayaks. If not, we would have risked sinking on the way back. Although the hundreds of squawking birds didn't appreciate our presence on the small beach, I took my time and emptied the kayak anyway. I didn't want to become shark bait. My arms were exhausted and my wrists hurt.
We set off again and made a lap around the island, weaving in and out of posts that encircled the perimeter and were intended to protect it from erosion. Time and the elements were winning that battle. On the other side I took a picture of a huge osprey's nest. Lucky for me the bird was out fishing. I'm sure she would not have appreciated my intrusion. Peering through the brush, we could barely see the remains of the old hunting lodge.
Next we decided to paddle to Mary Island about a mile to the south. Going in that direction, we headed directly into the waves. Joseph and John pulled way ahead of me. I kept telling myself: I'm an endurance athlete. I can do this. Slowly but surely I caught up. Mary Island was not nearly as interesting--just a huge, marshy clump of land out in the middle of the Currituck Sound.
We decided to paddle all the back to our beach house, an extra three-quarters of a mile. With a mile to go Joseph and John had to head in to shore. Their kayak had filled up again with water. Could I win the race back to the beach house? At this point I had to stop every few hundred yards, rest my arms, and lean on my elbows to relieve my aching butt. John and Joseph caught and passed me with a few hundred yards to go. By the time I pulled up to the dock I was exhausted--three and one half hours of paddling a kayak for about seven miles through wind and waves.
Kayaking to Monkey Island--I can check that one off my bucket list. I don't plan on doing it again and don't recommend the journey to a novice kayaker. However, if you are a risk taker and don't mind running into a bull shark, go ahead and try it. Or as the shark would say, "Go ahead. Make my day."
Next post -- Wheeling's Fourth of July Five Miler
Happy running,
Joe C. Ellis
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