A Trip Along the Gulf of Finland
This year we had to push the opening of our kayaking season back from the May holidays, because we'd gone to Crimea, and after that we made an unsuccessful outing on the Volga, where we froze terribly (the temperature dropped below 7 degrees, and we were dressed for 15). So we needed to make up for it and do a proper warm-up trip.
We were choosing between a trip from Medvezhyegorsk to Kizhi and a short trip on Lake Ladoga. Dasha tirelessly scouted the bodies of water you can reach within a single day, and the choice fell on the Gulf of Finland. The Vyborg – Zelenogorsk route seemed very appealing to us, and besides, it's the Baltic Sea, which we'd never been on, except for one time on a beach in Piter — but that hardly counts as serious.
Gear
On every trip we try to come up with or apply something new, and this one was no exception.
First, I was tired of replacing the fraying Kevlar cables of the steering lines on our Ladoga. On the White Sea trip this was just about the most tedious part of my routine, and I fiercely hated the engineers who had designed this important part of the boat so ineptly. I decided to take the drastic route — I replaced part of the cords with a steel cable, which I spliced onto itself, slipped on two layers of heat-shrink tubing, and left right inside the kayak's skin, so that there was simply nothing left to fray.
Second — we decided to experiment with seats. On the last trip my backside ached terribly from those inflatable seats, and at first we wanted to replace them with rigid ones, but a salesman from grebi.ru came to the rescue (yes, oddly enough, there turned out to be a person there you could actually talk to and get information from — thank you, man), who suggested that you can sit on dry bags. We bought 70-liter dry bags for this and didn't regret it. A ton of space was saved in the stern, where the sleeping bags and inflatable mats used to go. Now we sat on them, the stern freed up room for every conceivable and inconceivable thing, so I felt more at ease about our upcoming summer trip. And by the way, it really is comfortable to sit on. A sleeping bag in a dry bag is fairly "anatomical" and takes the shape of your behind.
Third, and most important. Having read a lot of "Severnye Prostory" (Northern Expanses), Dasha started dreaming of a sail for the kayak. At first I didn't like the idea, but after the White Sea trip I changed my mind a lot. Paddling is undoubtedly interesting, but sometimes you want to rest. Installing a sail on a frame kayak is quite an undertaking, actually. There's a "factory" sail rig for the Ladoga, with a huge mast and two outriggers. Not only does this set weigh 16 kilograms and turn the kayak into a trimaran, it also makes paddling nearly impossible. Not our choice. Severnye Prostory added extra struts into the frames and a four-meter mast with a large but not too stiff sail. That didn't suit us either. Last year, from the book "All way round," which tells of a trip around Australia, I learned about sails from Flat Earth; they're good in every way — a small sail mounts on the bow of the kayak, is easy to control, and helps a lot even on a close haul. But it too requires installing a mast, which we didn't want to do. We looked at a couple more interesting kayak sail options, but none of them quite worked for us, though I'd order some for testing. Which I may well do next time.
Quite by chance Dasha came across a sail from Pacific Action, also an Australian company. The sail won us over with its design, which folds and unfolds easily when needed, and with its V-shape that maximizes area, plus, according to the manufacturer, you can tack with it. After a little correspondence with the maker, we decided to go ahead and order their largest sail, 2.2 square meters in area, in order to have time to test it before the trip. The sail arrived within a week, so we had plenty of time for testing. Installing the sail was a bit of a challenge: for it we had to buy a riveting tool and new rivets, and then glue loops into the kayak's hull. I fiddled with it the whole evening and part of the night, but the next day Makar and I went off to Strogino to test the sail to our heart's content. The first tests exceeded all expectations. With a following wind the sail pulled us along at 10 kilometers an hour! Even in a light wind it gave us 2-3 kilometers, and paddling became very easy. We didn't fully figure out how to set it up and were practically unable to sail close-hauled, but we'd solve that later, out at sea.
The sail in all its glory, turned almost 90 degrees
Folded up
The attachment point on the bow is made from a piece of webbing; I deliberately moved the sail farther forward so it wouldn't block the hatch and we could still secure the bow dry bag (not in the photo) and have access to it. Under the sail's mast I had to put an extra piece of fabric so the sail wouldn't chafe the hull. You can also see the entire mounting system here.
Day 0The Lev Tolstoy Train
We set off on the "Lev Tolstoy" train. The difference between the "ordinary" premium trains (our beloved "Arktika") and the premium train running to Helsinki is immediately apparent. The compartments are bigger, each has air conditioning you can control just like on the "Krasnaya Strela" (Red Arrow). We stowed our luggage in the dead-end vestibule, since the train has no luggage compartments and not everything would have fit in our compartment.
For dinner you could get a perfectly decent hot dish, and in the morning they served porridge. Simply splendid. It made me really want to travel the same way, but in a first-class sleeper.
Day 1Vyborg → Kiperort
At 9 a.m. we arrive in Vyborg; on the way out of the station we immediately find a taxi and for 200 rubles ride to the beach, with a stop at a store. Here we buy 10 liters of water, which, as it will later turn out, we'll have to stretch across all 4 days. We regret not taking an extra day to see the town. We'll have to come back sometime.
The wind, confirming the forecast, is blowing from the southwest — which is exactly where we have to head. The first day's plan is to get out of Vyborg Bay. Unhurried, we assemble the kayak, treat the joints of the stringers and frames with anti-corrosion oil, and under the curious gazes of a local family that has come to admire the sea, we put on the water at 11 o'clock.
Paddling isn't very pleasant, since the wind blows into our faces and you can't even raise the sail, so we have to grit our teeth, grip the paddle, and just paddle, not too fast.
We reached Vysotsk and were finally able to rest a little. The channel between the islands shelters us from the waves and a bit from the wind; we paddle past a coast-guard base and a coal port. To our right is the border zone, guarded by an impressive number of armed ships.
At 3 p.m. we stop for lunch in Bolshaya Pikhtovaya Bay, having covered 16 kilometers. The result isn't impressive — we like to do at least 20 before lunch — but there's nothing to be done. The weather won't let us pick up much speed. The wind veers to the west, and after lunch we have to set out on a big crossing — 9 kilometers to the Kiperort Peninsula. The only problem is the tankers darting back and forth. Slow as they are, we'll have to cross their fairway. I switch the radio to channel 16. By the way, mid-crossing I jumped a little in surprise when the radio came to life and someone started talking on channel 16.
Here we decide to properly use the sail for the first time, since there's a clear beam wind blowing. As I've written, we hadn't fully figured out how to set the sail's forward downhaul, and it keeps falling. Dasha has to hold it with her paddle and not paddle, but for me that takes away a ton of headache. First, the sail adds at least 4 kilometers an hour of speed, and paddling alone is easier for me than when we paddle together. Second, no matter what I tell her, Dasha noticeably rocks the kayak when she paddles.
So now I don't have to compensate for the rocking, and I paddle almost the whole 9 kilometers alone, only having to lean slightly to the right to offset the heel from the sail.
Coming out of the bay, the sun hammers straight into our eyes, nasty rocks appear, and we can see a big sea swell that's been driven in from the other side of the bay. We lower the sail and, after riding the "roller coaster" of waves a little, paddle to our campsite. We could in principle have caught the wind and gone on, but the little cove is nice, and on the first day there's no need to push too hard. We covered 26 kilometers.
Day 2Primorsk → Marinniemi
The forecast says west/southwest wind, but the wind has its own plans, and in the morning it blows from the southeast. We had really counted on our nearly 90-degree turn giving us a chance to catch the wind on a broad reach, but instead we have to take it in the face. The wind shifts a little to the southwest, and Dasha again holds the sail with her paddle. Rain is pouring, the sky is leaden, the air is +10 degrees, so we need to paddle not only for speed but to stay warm, while Dasha is barely moving. A powerful wave hits our right side; it has many kilometers to build up speed, so we're counting on the waters of the Björkösund strait to protect us.
After an hour and a half of such experiments we decide to land and re-tension the downhaul; we pulled it tighter and moved the attachment point itself about another 10 centimeters forward, and, lo and behold, it helps. The sail stands as if on command — except now the wind blows right in our faces. Another hour later we enter the strait, but we have to lower the sail, since the wind is now straight in our faces.
We stop for lunch before Primorsk. The weather improves a little, the clouds stretch out, but the wind is still unfavorable. Again we hope that, turning after Primorsk, we'll be able to raise the sail. But here too our hopes were dashed. Despite the forecasts from gismeteo, Yandex Weather, and windguru, the wind blows almost straight from the east rather than from the west. We can, of course, sit and wait for the right wind, but then getting anywhere would be problematic.
At Primorsk a gull tags along, flying above us and seeming to mock us with its "ke-ke-ke" for being forced to paddle against the wind. Look at me, it says, I fly and have no such problems.
Beyond Primorsk there's an oil port with three huge vessels moored. As we paddle toward them, we notice a strange ripple on the waves. It signals a change of wind direction — finally, a westerly! We don't need a second invitation; we raise the sail and immediately pick up a speed of 6-7 kilometers an hour.
For the next 40 minutes we just sit in the kayak and rest, enjoying the view and the unfamiliar feeling of moving without working our arms. Before the wind came up, we'd planned to spend the night just past the port, but now we decide on a crossing to Cape Marinniemi. On the crossing itself the wind dies down a little and we have to take up our paddles. But that's no hardship for us, because the sail still pulls us forward, even though we're on a beam reach. The lack of a centerboard is somewhat noticeable, but it's fairly easy for me to correct course with the rudder — the main thing is not to forget about it.
For the day we cover 41.6 kilometers, beating even our record on the Selizharovka River, where the current carried us all day and we did 40. As we approach the shore, tourists' tents come into view, and the cape is occupied by several tents at once, so we camp wherever there's room.
What's delightful about the Baltic Sea is the absence of tides. There are some, of course, but they're negligible. No need to calculate when to set out and when to land. No tidal flats whatsoever. In a word, a fairy tale.
On the first day we ran entirely on fresh water, and on the second we decided not to trudge to the lake that was, by the map, a kilometer and a half from camp. Since the seawater isn't too salty, I simply filter it through gauze and now we cook only with it. The remaining fresh water (about four liters) we use for tea.
Day 3Cape Peschany
In the morning we hear the eerie roar of waves. From inside the tent it seems a storm is raging outside, though the wind isn't especially strong. Without much desire I climb out to look, and discover it's just a powerful surf pounding the shore. In principle we could have realized the evening before that this would happen, if we'd spent time watching the waves. Now we'll have to launch into the surf. Quite a treat. Had we camped 200 meters to the left, this wouldn't have happened, but oh well. The wind blows from the sea but again veers slightly to the east. A little farther out at sea, larger closing-out waves are visible, marking our line of travel (well offshore).
We launch into a small surf. It tries to swing the kayak around and pour into our cockpit. When we'd moved about 200 meters from shore, a good-sized closing-out wave suddenly rose up in front of us, which, fortunately, was split by the kayak's bow.
After that we travel over fairly high but long waves. The wind again hammers our right side, then shifts head-on; here and there steep waves break, tripped by underwater rocks. One even hits us broadside, rolling the kayak. Not the most pleasant sensation, but nothing critical, we go on. A long wave is generally almost unnoticeable, even if it's nearly a meter high. It just slowly lifts and lowers the boat. Short waves, even low ones, hit hard and test your balance.
We do 15 kilometers and stop to rest. The spot we pick, however, couldn't be worse. Rocks everywhere, the surf pounding, and we're forced to maneuver, as much as that's possible in a loaded six-meter boat, through a maze of rocks that we identify by the waves breaking off them. So-so pleasure. On the way back out we grounded our belly a few times and sat waiting for the next wave to lift us. Experience, though.
The wind comes and goes, but it still adds us at least a kilometer an hour and greatly relieves the load on our arms. True, sometimes we lower the sail when it blows right in our faces. By lunchtime the wind begins to die down and the sun comes out.
We lunch on the beach of some very expensive cottage settlement. I walked up to the houses, and the staff at one of the mansions, apparently recognizing me as one of their own, agreed to fill my water bladder with fresh water. Now we have 6 liters of fresh water, and that'll last a good while.
After lunch the wind dies completely and a brutal heat switches on. We'd been ready for cold, but my Suunto reads +42; we have to take off our jackets, and paddling turns into some kind of suffer fest.
After two o'clock the heat finally switches on a breeze, which then becomes a tailwind. That can't help but please us. I turn on the radio and pick up "Radio Na Dvoikh," which plays Igor Nikolaev mixed with 80s-90s pop, but for some reason this music goes down really well, and we briskly continue on our way, mostly under sail.
We round Cape Peschany and find a long string of buildings, structures — holiday camps, by the looks of it. This is roughly where we need to camp. At first we wanted to camp on Peschany, but the strengthened tailwind sort of told us, "guys, use me while I'm here." Reluctantly, we push into a ninth hour on the water, covering another six kilometers, and land between two children's camps. Children and parents are walking everywhere — it's their visiting Saturday.
Before us is a fine little wood that practically begs us to pitch our tent in it, but for some reason it's fenced off with low posts and a rope strung between them, and every 100 meters there are signs forbidding entry.
We couldn't get a coherent answer from the children and parents about what was in there.
We're tired and don't want to go on even with a tailwind, so we ignore the sign and set up in the wood; it's cool and pleasant there, just what's needed after a day of brutal sun. From the map on the phone we learned that we'd camped on the grounds of a "Spa Resort," a truly luxury spot.
We're badly sunburned and feel some degree of dehydration, so we go to bed fairly quickly. Even the way we pitch the tent speaks to how tired we are.
We covered 44 kilometers for the day, and we dream about how far we could go if a tailwind blew all day. With these thoughts I fall asleep even before 9 p.m.
Day 4Zelenogorsk → Piter
Our ambitious plan, really, is to reach the Park of the 300th Anniversary of Saint Petersburg. The less ambitious one — to reach Sestroretsk. We choose the realistic one — to Zelenogorsk. Although the wind is favorable, we simply don't want to sit in the kayak any longer. A fourth day in a row is hard, and we also want to walk around Piter more. A quick pack-up, onto the water as fast as we can, we cover 10 kilometers in an hour and a half, break down the boat, lunch on the remaining freeze-dried food, call a taxi, and by two in the afternoon we're in Piter.
Here we visit the Museum of the Arctic and Antarctic and just eat, enjoying an unlimited supply of fresh water and a variety of food. We accomplished all the goals we'd set — we tested the sail, the new steering lines and seats, as well as the new anti-corrosion oil — and were pleased with everything. Preparation begins for the White Sea trip along the Tersky and Kandalaksha coasts.
On the way back, on the "Megapolis" train, they feed us a sandwich with red caviar. An excellent end to a long weekend.
And here's our track:
And, as always, a slightly trippy video