Icebreaking on the Byram River

or Sean's Wreck your Boat Trip!

By Sean Coffey

This particular trip began over twenty years ago when I was growing up in Port Chester, which borders the Byram River. The Byram is a combination tidal creek and babbling brook.

During Prohibition, bootleggers used it to sneak rum into Greenwich, Rye, and Port Chester, hence the name ‘Buy-Rum’ River.

As a kid, the river was my special place where I learned to fish, wade through rapids, and photograph wildlife. Each time I visited, I dreamt of someday travelling down its length to where it empties into the Long Island Sound.

Last summer, after a hot afternoon paddle to the Mianus River, I finished my excursion by paddling up the Byram as far as was humanly possible. Paddling against a weak ebb, I was able to reach the Route 1 overpass before I ran aground. Paddling back downstream, I caught the eye of many passers-by, with one resident exclaiming he had never before seen anyone in a boat UP river. At that moment, I realized with the proper tide conditions, I could start a trip as far upstream as the rapids and follow the river all the way out to the Sound, thus fulfilling my boyhood dream. My next brilliant idea was to run it as a club trip for everyone to enjoy.

On a grey and cold Sunday morning in March, I met the infamous Captain Al, Jane Ahlquist, John Petrocelli, Tom Lucas, Lenny “Mr. Velcro” LeShay, and the bad boy of kayaking, Don Gorski, for my own version of a Huck Finn boat trip. The put in was in the residential Pemberwick section of Greenwich, Connecticut. I had posted my famous M.A.S.K./M.C.K.C. signs all along the route, yet my paddling partners still managed to get lost. This, in hindsight, must have been a foreshadowing of things to come. As Al, John and Jane assembled their Kleppers I explained the personal significance of this trip and how happy I was to share it with such a group of good friends.

Twenty minutes later, assembled and outfitted, we launched into the iced-over river. The frigid weather of the past two days had scattered thin layers of ice about, but nothing thick enough to impede our progress. Tom and I were the ice breakers and we sandwiched the Kleppers (Al in his single, Jane and John in their double) between us and Don and Lenny, who were running sweep in the other hardshells. It was my first time breaking through ice and I found it exhilarating.

It was a struggle to portage the double Klepper as John, who wasn't wearing a full dry suit refused to leave the boat.

Tom and I paddled hard, trying to clear as large a passage as possible. Making it through the first section of frozen river, we glided downstream with the current until we were halted by some large rocks. We negotiated around them only to scrape our hulls on the river bottom. I heard a few curses from Don and Lenny, their spotless hulls were now autographed by the infamous river. We soon ran aground again, and this time actually had to portage the boats. It was a struggle to portage the double Klepper as John, who wasn’t wearing a full dry suit, refused to leave the boat. Cruel slave driver that he was, Jane and I spent ten minutes in the frigid water gingerly portaging Cleopatra Petrocelli over the rocks. By then Jane’s drysuit was leaking and her feet had gotten quite cold.

Nevertheless, we pushed on, only to run aground twice more. The last portage was the easiest and we walked the boats for about fifty yards until we got into deeper water. At that point, the tide was dropping quickly and it became imperative that we reach the Mill Street Bridge before noon. If we were caught there, portaging would be neither safe nor easy. That’s when it hit...suddenly I was getting my “ass chewed out” by everyone except Lenny, who kept asking, “Are we having fun yet?” Don Gorski seemed on the verge of shock. “Looks like my old girlfriend,” He muttered while looking at the battle scars on his brand new Nordkapp. I felt guilty, everyone had boat damage but me. I knew what would remedy the situation, but there wasn’t a bar in sight. “Alright,” I announced, “If you feel that bad, you can take it out on me.” And they did! For a full thirty seconds, they mock `paddled whipped’ me as Captain Al circled with his trusty Nikon, recording M.A.S.K. justice for posterity.

Once past the Mill Street bridge, we were safely in the dredged and deserted channel. The marinas, normally so buzzing with activity, were quiet and empty. Everything creaked with the weight of winter. We slipped past downtown Port Chester, where the river widens towards the Sound. Again we hit ice and again Tom and I pushed open a pathway for the others to follow. Some spots were more than a glazing and we really had to punch hard to break through. As we entered the mouth of the river, the ice build up was heavy and “slushy.” I went back to re-open one path for the Kleppers, which were struggling through the tightly packed pockets of slush. A group pow-wow at the breakwater marked the end of our down river odyssey. I felt a sense of accomplishment. I was sure we were the first hardy souls to paddle completely downstream in the middle of winter. Samuel Clemens would have been proud.

As we entered the Sound, the wind, from which we had been sheltered the entire morning, was suddenly unleashed. It was blowing hard and from the southeast, which always brings a heavy chop into the mouth of the river, as it has a long fetch from which to build. Our goal was to lunch on Captain’s Island in the northwest. To get there, we’d be running with two to three foot following seas. However, the group’s spirit was high and the conditions didn’t seem beyond anyone’s capabilities.

On the way out to the island, no one complained. We all enjoyed riding the wind driven swells. BUT the return would be a four mile push into 25 mile winds. The trip was progressing as foreshadowed: ice, low water, scraped hulls, waves, and WIND.

Our initial plan was to paddle around the southern tip of the island and grok in the rock gardens. However, as we advanced, we could see boomers and rough water off the southern shore. Also, approaching at that angle, the waves were coming dead abeam, so we landed instead on the west side of the island, in lee of the wind.

After lunching on the island, we decided to paddle due west to Byram Beach, instead of Playland Park in Rye. The course to Byram was the shortest and the least exposed, as it lay in the lee of the Calf Islands. And by this time Jane was feeling colder and needed to warm up, and Captain Al was rapidly taking on water due to a small tear in his hull. The only drawback was that my brother, Steve, was going to pick us up at 4:30 in Rye and take us back to the put in.

Lenny had a VHF radio and we tried to contact a marine operator to inform Steve of our new plan. But the old Coffey luck held true and Lenny was unsuccessful, either the batteries were too weak or the marine operator was dead.

As I finished re-packing my boat, I noticed Jane and John jogging along the beach. Jane had effectively pumped herself up and warmed her cold feet.

As we paddled clear of the island, the wind began to subside and the skies began to clear. We had another on the water pow wow and decided to head for our original take out at Playland.

Don and Tom took the lead and I played sweep as we headed for our next rest stop at Manursing Island. Things progressed well until we reached the middle of our crossing and the local wind roared out of the harbor and hit us full in the face. For the next two miles, we battled a strong headwind. The only thing that was audible above the howling of the wind was Lenny, who kept asking, “Are we having fun yet?”

As we approached the Westchester Beach Club, I could see some club members having target practice, and of course the targets were positioned seaward. Terrific, I thought! Ice, portages, wind, waves, and now bullets. What next?

Fortunately, nothing!! Our take-out at Playland was just around the corner and we landed without further incident.

While unpacking our gear, Don and I dissected the day. He held the trip to the island as a bad decision. Given the wind conditions, a cruise along the coast would have been less risky, especially with the diversity of our group. However, I maintained that knowing the skill level of the group made sticking to my original plan relatively safe. Had the group consisted of “less abled” paddlers, we would NOT have taken the route we chose. As with any club trip, there will be a variety of boats and a mixture of abilities. It is the cognizant trip leader who assesses all the variables, especially weather conditions, and decides on a plan that results in a safe and enjoyable paddle for most of those involved. Though today’s trip included a memorable stack of “obstacles,” we all had a good time and were never in conditions beyond our abilities.

The day ended with blue skies and the temperature on the rise. Steve was early and the shuttle went smoothly. As we were packing our cars to leave, curious beach-combers gawked at Captain Al stripping from his drysuit as Lenny’s car stereo blasted the music of John Phillips Sousa (who, according to Al, is also a M.A.S.K. member). The Captain ceremoniously dubbed us ‘Captains Of Our Crafts,’ and we headed to the Mapletree for a few beers and some friendly post paddle chatter. (Sorry, Lenny, next time we’ll visit a topless bar. And ... yes, we did have fun!).

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