A Corker of a Kayak Trip
In Cape Charles, Va., Grab a Paddle . . . And a Wineglass

By Ellen McCarthy
Washington Post Staff Writer
Wednesday, April 25, 2007

It's really just a shame, isn't it? Thousands of perfectly fine kayaking excursions are ruined each year by the senseless lack of libations. Oh, sure, there are raging waters and placid passages and random spottings of whatever kind of drab-feathered owl is spiraling toward extinction this week.

But what if one prefers to paddle while savoring the intense tropical citrus flavors of a steel-aged French clone chardonnay? Is it asking too much to want a bit of vine-ripened spirit as the accompaniment to an endeavor that's so often -- well, not dry exactly but, you know, dry.

The refined people of Cape Charles, Va., sure don't think so.

Which is exactly the thing that prompted me and my friend Allie to pack up and head to the southern tip of Virginia's Eastern Shore recently. After four hours spent asking "Who lives in these towns?" and "Who shops at that Macy's?" and "Why is there a College of Pharmacy in the same strip mall as a Burger King?" we pulled up to the converted garage-style headquarters of SouthEast Expeditions.

There we found Dave Burden, loading a slew of kayaks onto the trailer behind his pickup. If you like your boating/wine tasting guides to look as if they just stepped off the set of "Northern Exposure," Dave's your guy.

He signed us in, told us to follow his lead and away we -- um . . . huh. A kayak flew off the back of Dave's truck into the middle of the road, and he kept on keeping on without ever looking back.

Allie and I aren't skittish types, really, but we suddenly found ourselves hoping for shallow waters and weak winds.

But first, a drink at Chatham Vineyards, just a few miles outside of town in Machipongo. It's a Federal-style mansion surrounded by a lush old farm that Northern Virginia native Jon Wehner and his wife, Millie, planted with vines eight years ago.

"You can really taste the Eastern Shore," Wehner said as he moved from the oak-barreled chardonnay to its not-too-sweet rosé. It's a small operation -- and one of only a handful in the region -- but the wines were wonderfully drinkable and the atmosphere cozy.

Dave, who had led us to the vineyard and disappeared with the boats (retrieving the wayward kayak in the process), was back now, wearing shorts and flip-flops despite the infuriating April chill. It was time to paddle, he said, so we followed him to the bank of a gently flowing body of water he introduced as Church Creek, which apparently leads to another little creek, which leads to the Chesapeake Bay. No Class VI rapids here.

After about 25 minutes or so on the water, Dave began expounding on facets of the creek's environment. Something about salt marshes or egrets or osprey. But, oh, who cared about that, because then he was pulling us to shore and uncorking bottles of red and white.

Turns out our kayaking expedition consisted mostly of a cocktail hour on a spit of land 200 yards offshore. Salut! We settled in as Dave and Donna Bozza, the other local among our band of six, recounted tales of life in tiny Cape Charles (population under 2,000 at the moment).

"Stay here a week, and you'll know everyone," Dave said. "And whether you like it or not, they'll know you." And sitting on a log with our feet in the sand, drinking merlot from a plastic cup under a soft gray sky, that suddenly sounded tempting.

It was almost dark by the time we knocked at the door of the Sea Gate Bed and Breakfast, a Victorian with one of those front porches that almost commands you to sit, stop rushing, relax already.

"Come in. Come in. Come in," bellowed Chris Bannon, the inn's proprietor. "Have you been here before? No? Well, it's very safe. If you find anything exciting, call me."

Apparently one of the things that happens when you live in a town like Cape Charles, whose downtown takes up eight square blocks, is that you have time to think up some great lines.

Another example: "If you run into any locals, count their teeth. If it's less than 22, run." A third: "This is Mr. Kitty, and there's only one rule in this house: He's pretty, and you're not."

Fair enough. It stung worse when Bannon said he had paid just $40,000 for this five-bedroom house two decades ago, so we sulked for a while, then picked ourselves up and got ready for dinner. Our host recommended "Chez Exxon," which turned out to be a truck stop named Sting-Ray's known for its "shrimp on the run." Sounded delightful, but it was back on the highway and we'd had it with driving, so we set off on foot.

Outside you could hear the water but not much else. Dave had said earlier, "The word used most often about Cape Charles is 'potential,' " which he much preferred to "overdevelopment." As it stands now, Cape Charles is the type of place where kids have to find their own fun -- at the beach and on bikes and wandering around with their new best friends Jack and Spencer, who are staying one street over and want to know if everyone can come over to roast marshmallows. Please? Can we?

We passed three cats but not a single soul before ducking into the Chesapeake, a little spot that at least showed signs of life. Turned out to be a wine bar and bistro with a jazz band just getting ready to play. (Telling facts from Chesapeake owner Robbin Smith: You've got to make Saturday night reservations weeks in advance during summer, but the restaurant brought in less than $10,000 for the whole of January.)

Half a pretty decent set later, we wandered a few doors down to Kelly's Gingernut Pub, where it seemed everyone younger than 50 who lives within a 30-mile radius had gathered for the night.

"God, everyone's so friendly," Allie said. And it was true. Chris Bannon's line on the matter: "You feel like the pope or the queen of England here, with people waving at you wherever you go."

We ordered oysters, calamari and cod -- all fried, of course -- and wound up rhapsodizing about the not-too-gloppy coleslaw. Normally we'd switch into high gear at this time of night, but we'd reached that lovely point of full, contented exhaustion and so, for the first time in a long time, we were both ready for bed by 11 p.m. on a Saturday.

Sleep came easy, but I woke suddenly when a car with a roaring sound system passed. It was unnerving. Not the noise -- the ensuing absence of noise.

Anyway, Dave was right. If you stayed here a week, you'd know everyone in town. And if you stayed here a week, you'd paddle and sip and ride bikes and roast marshmallows and relax on command. If you stayed here a week, you'd stop being startled by silence.