POST 2 — Onto the Elbe
Updated: Oct 10
April 8–19, 2013
Three hours. That's how long I waited at the next lock after Klecany. When they finally let me through, I paddled as far as Mělník — just fifteen minutes past closing time at the lock. Naturally. But to be honest, even that short distance wiped me out. I threw up the tarp and crashed next to the kayak like a passed-out hiker at a music festival.
The next morning, I got lucky. I was let through the lock at 1 p.m., and bam — I was on the Elbe. Finally. Real current, real flow. The kayak felt light. Everything moved. For the first time since launching, it felt like I wasn't dragging the world behind me.
Except the water had other plans. The surface was littered with random upwellings, weird patches that seemed determined to throw the boat off course. It wasn't relaxing — it was like paddling over a trampoline made of jellyfish.
And the truth hit: I had completely forgotten how to paddle properly. Zero rhythm, zero technique. I shortened the paddle, stayed conservative, and told myself it would come back. Still, that day felt like a win — a few solid kilometres, forward motion, good weather. It felt real.
Field Repairs and Pirate Engineering
Then came Hřensko. Beautiful town. Ridiculously dramatic backdrop. It also happened to be the spot where my kayak was officially declared unstable.
I had always known the directional stability of this model was going to be a gamble — it's a classic issue with Swedish-form hulls. The boat tracked like a drunk goat. I'd had some doubts before, but after a few sketchy manoeuvres and several "What the hell?" moments on flat water, it was clear: something had to change.
The fix? A custom keel. I pulled out a roll of duck tape, an aluminium strip, and a serious amount of optimism. Over the next few days, I experimented — too short, too long, too bendy. Eventually, I landed on something that held steady.
A local friend helped me laminate the keel into place, even delaying his work trip just to assist. I owe him a beer. Or ten.
Speed Check, Confidence Boost
The next day, after some light sanding and kayak reassembly, I hit the water again. And this time, everything clicked.
I measured my pace over a controlled stretch. Fifty-five paddle strokes per minute. Not sprinting, but solid. I timed a kilometre: 6 minutes, 4 seconds. I did the maths. That's about 9.89 km/h. For a loaded expedition kayak, with almost no assist from the current?
I'll take it.
It was the first time I felt genuinely proud of how the boat performed. Everything fit. The boat, the paddle, the rhythm. It was a strange kind of happiness — not loud, just steady. Satisfying.
A Good Day to Smash Into a Buoy
And then came Děčín. The river moves fast there — 15 km/h easy — and I saw an opportunity to get some cool footage. I tried lining up a shot as I passed a buoy... and promptly slammed right into it. Full-on, side impact.
No damage, just bruised ego. Let's call it a structural integrity test.
That evening, I paddled through the canyon toward Hřensko again, the shadows stretching long over the cliffs. And something bubbled up — a wild laugh, from somewhere deep. I started yelling into the canyon, just because I could.
I hadn't felt that kind of joy in a long time. Not the "things are going great" joy — the kind that shows up in spite of everything else. The kind that says:
I'm exactly where I need to be, doing the thing I was built for.