Kayaking
Moving against the current as the sea reclaims the water she has given during high tide, and the sea breeze fights its surface causing cross current waves even in the bay. There is nothing like the ocean: keep the bow into the waves; don't let the wind push you broadside; keep paddling, two repetitions forward, one wave back, as you make your way to the next island. There is nothing like paddling a ten foot kayak off the coast of Maine. There are so many places to see, creatures to behold.
Wood Island: turn of the 19th century lighthouse, wooden mile long walkway through an enchanted forest stunted by storms, deer, baby ducks learning to swim and dive beneath our feet, sea gulls quite perturbed as we pass, their brown eggs speckled with black,and the many fuzzy newly hatched babies who don't seem to fear us at all. We move cautiously on land, and at times, cover our heads because the daddy gulls are diving much too close for comfort. Larry is horrified because I stop to snap some pictures. Probably understandable because the gulls seem to see him as the major predator and are coming close to spearing his head. We touch nothing and move on, down to the rocky shore, push off, and head to the next island, the next adventure, the next creatures awaiting us.
Bufflehead ducks--males look like skunks that can fly. Cormorants---like black smoke as they dive, spear fish, resurface, and watch us paddle by. Seals--but they are gone in a flash. One of us comments there are 60 different kinds of gulls, or some absurd number like that. I think we saw most of them. One one island they clearly dominante and we would be fools to even attempt to get close. Some are grey and white, others black and white. Many are different sizes and shadings. They outnumber us---Hitchcock would appreciate this. Another island has a large cross on top, or is it a disgarded masthead? On another island is an oblisk (spelling/) type of structure that has been there since Civil War days. If I were not claustrophobic, I might have ventured a climb inside of it. But I am, so I didn't.
The tide has beaten us in---we have to climb out into ankle deep sand for awhile until we reach deeper water. Someone falls in--wasn't me this time! It's cold in mid-June in Maine, but refreshing. The gulls race beside us grabbing up the crabs that are scurrying away. The water loosens the kinks in my legs and I am able to move smoother, freer now on surer footing. That's an MS thing. Cold helps the nerve connections function better. We paddle some more across the channel and land. We go to eat at a seafood restaurant overlooking the ocean and watch the beginnings of a sunset, then walk off our meal along the coastal, dead end road, way past sunset. It has been a magical day with three friends. Kayaking is always like that, always.
Two days later, another friend, and we head inland to Providence Lake in New Hampshire. It is ours alone today, no other craft in sight. The wind picks up as we make our way through it to the edge of the shore to follow the lake around. At the far end we stop, picnic, talk, "Why do we always seem like we have so much to talk about?" you say. We do, and it isn't the kind of talk in lieu of silence, because we handle silence well too. It is real talk. When I got out of the kayak I fell. The water was cold, compounded by the wind that is up to 30 mph and increasing rapidly. We decide to finish our journey around the lake. Shortly we come upon a loon on a nest. She squenches down so we won't see her eggs. We move on so as not to disturb her. We saw her mate earlier bobbing in the whitecaps.
It is clear now that we need to head back to where we put in, the other end of the lake a few miles or so away. The wind has picked up to 40 mph. We need to keep our bows straight, not let the cross winds and waves turn us or hit us broadside, just let the waves propel us back. We are really moving. Imagine if we had sails. We'd probably be airborne. When we venture a peek behind us, we see the waves--they are big and close together. "Does the distance between waves indicate the speed of the wind and/or the height of the waves?" you ask. We make it back. We land, but not on our own volition; the waves throw us onto the shore. I land sideways and the waves start to fill the kayak. I'm laughing so hard I can't get out. My friend helps me. It has been one of those days again. Good kayaking and good friends. How lucky can one be?
These are the moments I carefully store up for "winter," for those times when I am getting yet another chemo-treatment. Instead of watching the plastic bags drip into my IV, I close my eyes and bring all my senses together to relive my kayaking adventures with friends. They are that vivid to me. The nurses think I am smiling because I am courageous--how wrong. I am smiling because my entire mind is not there at all but nearing some island off the coast of Maine, or slowing manuevering close to a loon sitting on her nest in the northland of New Hampshire. I am feeling the wind carry me; I am sitting deep in the water in my green 10 foot Loon kayak.
Wood Island: turn of the 19th century lighthouse, wooden mile long walkway through an enchanted forest stunted by storms, deer, baby ducks learning to swim and dive beneath our feet, sea gulls quite perturbed as we pass, their brown eggs speckled with black,and the many fuzzy newly hatched babies who don't seem to fear us at all. We move cautiously on land, and at times, cover our heads because the daddy gulls are diving much too close for comfort. Larry is horrified because I stop to snap some pictures. Probably understandable because the gulls seem to see him as the major predator and are coming close to spearing his head. We touch nothing and move on, down to the rocky shore, push off, and head to the next island, the next adventure, the next creatures awaiting us.
Bufflehead ducks--males look like skunks that can fly. Cormorants---like black smoke as they dive, spear fish, resurface, and watch us paddle by. Seals--but they are gone in a flash. One of us comments there are 60 different kinds of gulls, or some absurd number like that. I think we saw most of them. One one island they clearly dominante and we would be fools to even attempt to get close. Some are grey and white, others black and white. Many are different sizes and shadings. They outnumber us---Hitchcock would appreciate this. Another island has a large cross on top, or is it a disgarded masthead? On another island is an oblisk (spelling/) type of structure that has been there since Civil War days. If I were not claustrophobic, I might have ventured a climb inside of it. But I am, so I didn't.
The tide has beaten us in---we have to climb out into ankle deep sand for awhile until we reach deeper water. Someone falls in--wasn't me this time! It's cold in mid-June in Maine, but refreshing. The gulls race beside us grabbing up the crabs that are scurrying away. The water loosens the kinks in my legs and I am able to move smoother, freer now on surer footing. That's an MS thing. Cold helps the nerve connections function better. We paddle some more across the channel and land. We go to eat at a seafood restaurant overlooking the ocean and watch the beginnings of a sunset, then walk off our meal along the coastal, dead end road, way past sunset. It has been a magical day with three friends. Kayaking is always like that, always.
Two days later, another friend, and we head inland to Providence Lake in New Hampshire. It is ours alone today, no other craft in sight. The wind picks up as we make our way through it to the edge of the shore to follow the lake around. At the far end we stop, picnic, talk, "Why do we always seem like we have so much to talk about?" you say. We do, and it isn't the kind of talk in lieu of silence, because we handle silence well too. It is real talk. When I got out of the kayak I fell. The water was cold, compounded by the wind that is up to 30 mph and increasing rapidly. We decide to finish our journey around the lake. Shortly we come upon a loon on a nest. She squenches down so we won't see her eggs. We move on so as not to disturb her. We saw her mate earlier bobbing in the whitecaps.
It is clear now that we need to head back to where we put in, the other end of the lake a few miles or so away. The wind has picked up to 40 mph. We need to keep our bows straight, not let the cross winds and waves turn us or hit us broadside, just let the waves propel us back. We are really moving. Imagine if we had sails. We'd probably be airborne. When we venture a peek behind us, we see the waves--they are big and close together. "Does the distance between waves indicate the speed of the wind and/or the height of the waves?" you ask. We make it back. We land, but not on our own volition; the waves throw us onto the shore. I land sideways and the waves start to fill the kayak. I'm laughing so hard I can't get out. My friend helps me. It has been one of those days again. Good kayaking and good friends. How lucky can one be?
These are the moments I carefully store up for "winter," for those times when I am getting yet another chemo-treatment. Instead of watching the plastic bags drip into my IV, I close my eyes and bring all my senses together to relive my kayaking adventures with friends. They are that vivid to me. The nurses think I am smiling because I am courageous--how wrong. I am smiling because my entire mind is not there at all but nearing some island off the coast of Maine, or slowing manuevering close to a loon sitting on her nest in the northland of New Hampshire. I am feeling the wind carry me; I am sitting deep in the water in my green 10 foot Loon kayak.
posted by AYankee @ 10:36 AM
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