Paddling Out
My kayak is 17 feet long and weights approximately 60 pounds. To get it to the water, I lash it down on top of my aging silver Corolla. There are tell-tale scratches along the top edge of my trunk that remind me to toss some carpet onto the rear before loading, and just the other day, I snapped off my car’s antenna after one-too-many fumbled attempts to slide the boat into its roof-top cradle. While I’ve had some practice, car-topping a sea kayak is still an exercise in overcoming unwieldiness with the least amount of destruction.
Lugging the kayak from the car to the water can also be quite cumbersome. While 60 pounds isn’t particularly heavy, the distribution of that weight across 17 feet allows the ends of the vessel to leverage inertial force against my will. Shouldering this load down a winding path, it’s easy to swing around and inadvertently bash bystanders in the head.
Awkwardness defines the experience of moving a kayak from your home to to the water’s edge. However, once you’re in the cockpit, everything changes.
On calm, untrafficked waters, you experience freedom one can rarely find in the modern world. There are no lanes, no right or wrong directions. Drifting across the glassy plane, suspended above darkness, you float like a wayward spirit along the edges of each realm. Paddling across the surface, there is an inexpressible sense of peace and serenity. Push off in one direction, and you continue to effortlessly glide as water breaks across the bow. Resistance simply doesn’t exist as it does on land. You don’t have to fight for every inch. Ask for one, and the water will give you four.
On the flip side, there is a distinct sense of powerlessness when floating upon open water. The depth of the abyss below is beyond visual perception, and sitting just 3 feet above the surface, you are unable to ignore the immensity of its width and breadth. There is a eery sense that you aren’t supposed to be there, that you are a stranger and an alien. There is a feeling that you are at the mercy of powerful forces, and you would do well not to test them. This is the dark side of complete freedom. You are not inhibited, but neither are you protected.
As a software developer, my day-to-day life is defined by man-made rules and logic. To experience the freedom of being on the water is both relaxing and exhilarating, and I’ve become addicted to the the rebellious independence of being my own island. It’s the same reason I love backpacking for days to remote mountains. It’s the reason I want to move on from streams to rivers, from lakes to oceans, and from 4 miles to 40 miles. The desire for self-sufficiency harkens back to the rugged days of our ancestors, and I believe there is, in many of us, an instinctive drive to seek adventure, a drive ingrained through eons of scratching out a meagre survival through risk and reward. It’s the drive that pushes humanity outside its comfort zone.
For me, kayaking is an escape. Even a morning trip down the local creek is a reminder that life isn’t defined by the every-day grind. It’s a reminder that artificial structure is just that: artificial. It rekindles my childhood dreams of exploration, and it keeps my imagination alive.
