arrival in Walton, “home of the Walton Whopper.” But Lockyer hadn’t brought us here for burgers. Beneath Walton’s solitary bridge, the
tide was ebbing. Before long, what began as an innocuous green tongue had trans- formed into a chundering, kayak-eating maw—the real Whopper. The mayhem that followed was not only a glorious spectacle of kayak carnage, but also a lens to focus the diversity of talent gathered in this unlikely spot: West Coast hotshot Paul Kuthe’s controlled carves and foam pile flatspins, informed by years of paddling whitewater rivers. Welsh coach Nick Cunliffe’s inimitably fluid style, as smooth as the wave itself. California surf kayak champion Sean Mor- ley’s hard-charging power, Great Lakes coach Ryan Rushton’s tenacity, Curgen- ven’s whack-a-mole-like resilience. Kuthe seemed a lock for the inaugural Whopper win with a series of cartwheels that had onlookers cringing at the audible thuds of his bow and stern striking sub- merged rocks. Then New Zealand paddler Jaime Sharp entered the fray for a final wild bronco ride. His rightful claim to the title was settled when his borrowed Valley Gemini endered and pirouetted on its bow to the wild cheers of battered coaches and baffled spectators alike. If the Whopper confirmed Curgenven’s
assessment about Lockyer’s choice of BOFSKS ambassadors, it also demon- strated in no uncertain way Fundy’s ability to humble even the most experi- enced paddlers.
When Life Gives You Bananas
“The ‘check engine’ light has been on the whole bloody drive,” Rob Avery gripes as we pull out of Maitland and turn his well-abused, early ‘90s vintage Chevy Suburban toward Argyle, 350 kilometers distant. Actually, Avery—an affable Brit now re- siding in Seattle—isn’t the truck’s owner; it came attached to a trailer full of kayaks he picked up in Rhode Island several days earlier. “I slapped a banana sticker over the light so it doesn’t bother us any,” Av- ery continues, chuckling with satisfaction. From where I’m seated shotgun, I can just make out the ominous orange glow through a blue-and-gold Chiquita logo. An hour later, a sudden clunking noise
erupts from beneath the truck’s faded green hood and we drift falteringly into the shoulder. Behind us, the convoy grinds to a halt. At least the symposium can’t start without us—half of the coach- es are standing with me on the side of Highway 102 somewhere outside Halifax. One tow, two hours and a spirited
round of touch wrestling and tailgate lunches in a Petro-Canada parking lot later, we get the bad news: the Sub- urban isn’t going anywhere without a new engine. Abandoning the truck and its attendant $4,500 repair estimate at the garage—and cramming the remain- ing vehicles well beyond recommended capacity with people, boats and soggy paddling gear—we continue the four- hour drive to Argyle.
60 | ADVENTURE KAYAK
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