100 miles east of a
slaby, sharky reef I'll never surf, lies an island
discovered by two of my friends. A convergence of river channels meet at the tail end of this island creating a seam that sucks you to the bottom. A seam that
has become renowned far and wide amongst a tribe. A small tribe of
completely stoked and dedicated kayakers. A tribe with more aloha than any I've known. This seam has
become the annual gathering place for these people. The Weasel Gathering. Catching up with friends, sleeping under the stars, sending smoke signals to the heavens from the
island as thanks and trying to become one with the river are the only real objectives. It's a strange and wonderful way of breath holding and swimming with the fishes.
the peanut gallery
fully tranced
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