Kayaking With The Stars

Here’s this week’s reflection. I hope it resonates with you and ask that, if you enjoyed, please comment and share on your social media. Heartfelt thanks for all your support!

Keeping the light on for you,

Carol

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“Are you sure about this?” my husband asked.

The glossy brochure confidently stated anyone in moderate physical shape could enjoy the 31-mile kayaking weekend. Three days of rustic beauty, easily attainable for two fit thirty-somethings, included nights of tenting on the Apostle islands of Lake Superior. I booked the trip, determined to prove to my other half this city girl could indeed enjoy the great outdoors.

My preparation mimicked other holidays. Acrylic nails were freshly lacquered. Snazzy outfits and a plethora of skin care were safely stowed in small “dry bags” purchased for the excursion. Smugly eyeing my packing prowess, I was convinced I had everything under control.

Arriving on the scene, I knew differently. Clothing was a few revolving layers, not always kept dry in bags of the same name. Bathing was optional for obvious reasons. Years of aerobics had not included rowing. Late July water temps hovered in the 50s. A quick dive to hypothermia if capsized, our lack of skill would surely outlast any wetsuit protection. What had I gotten myself into?

Our fearless guide, John Lennon, (long hair in a ponytail and round wire glasses made him the star’s doppelganger and what I immediately dubbed him), faced his six new compadres, briefing us on the trip. Living in the back of an open pickup truck during summers and bathing in the lake, John and I shared absolutely nothing in common. His enthusiasm for this style of living was both foreign and repulsive. I eyed him skeptically with an arched brow as he vehemently assured that even I would have fun.

Game on, brother.

My hubby was raring to go, bonding quickly with this new outdoor soulbro. A complete antithesis to my desire of luxury travel, my husband had been itching to experience a sojourn of this sort, having grown up in a camping family. Staring at the cold bay, I steeled myself, silently refusing to let him down.

Our group was an interesting band of strangers. Biff and Buffy were a perky, pretty, perfectly tanned pair hailing from a nearby city, the “wild” being their aphrodisiac of choice to sample unmentionable acts on remote beaches. The next couple, Jack and Jill, was a more practical and relaxed duo sporting the not-our-first-rodeo vibe. Hubby and I rounded out the mix as a seasoned woodsman and a big whiner.

The first safety drill was to perform a capsize and resurface. Trepidation mounted as we donned wetsuits and sealed ourselves in our kayaks with tight elastic spray skirts. The last to go, I fearfully implored John Lennon: Stay alongside and rescue me within 10 seconds.

Floating away while offering chuckling reassurance over his shoulder, John joined the others, confirming my suspicion he could not be trusted.

Once upside down, the murky icy-cold water evoked a gasp as the shock hit my delicate flesh. Needing to cough, I frantically scratched and clawed for the ironically missing escape loop on that protective skirt. Caught under the lip of the opening, one final panicked swipe brought it out of hiding. Yanking free and popping to the surface after what seemed an eternity, I heard the group break into applause with chipper accolades of “You did so well!” I decided to hate these people. 

F-bombs spat out with my violent coughs, anger adding redness to my cheeks despite the frigid facial. Corkscrewing uneducated muscles back into a lilliputian hull offered a comedic finale.

Clearly in over my head, embarrassed, and having already broken a nail, we set off. The fact that an intense fear had been faced with success was of little comfort.

A paddling rhythm unfolded with a forced focus on the natural beauty surrounding us. Calm water and good conversation flowed with the eight miles of current toward our first stop.

Biff and Buffy thankfully chose a rock beach far from the rest of us to stake their claim. The rhythmic chinking of tent stakes would prohibit sleep for the rest of us and we had no trouble supporting their desire for isolation. Curious deer and the Milky Way were more appropriate entertainment on this blissfully serene night.

The next day served up rain, clouds, and sea caves. A floating queue through mystical caverns offered protection from the inclement weather. On the advice of John Lennon, my bold mate climbed out of his kayak in one of the caverns to explore some nooks and crannies. Fearful of him falling in a remote locale, I impatiently floated outside in the chilly pounding rain, my tired muscles starting a noticeable rant. Intensely sore from this new, unfamiliar activity, a supine position was still hours away.

Respite that night first included a two-mile walk to a lovely sandstone lighthouse. Treated to the majesty of a storm’s approach during sunset, standing out on the exposed rock shoals allowed close witness to this awe-inspiring masterpiece from Mother Nature.

We were also treated to swarms of vicious black flies. Running back to camp was a frantic, painful, shooing gyration despite DEET perfume. A final tent dive provided relief as the unrelenting fiends continued to pelt the nylon walls. Biff and Buffy again separated from the group, apparently aroused by this fiasco. We all secretly wished a cloud of the indiscriminate dive bombers would sneak into their love shack. 

Day three presented an ultimatum. Of weather, residual strength, and upset stomachs from the dwindling, warming food supply in a cooler rated for day trips.

Unprotected by islands, the final, longest span of the itinerary was open water, belting us with high chop and strong wind. During this barrage of elements, the woodsy woman Jill cruised alongside me, for “moral support,” happily humming the Hawaii Five-O theme song. Keeping my oar in the water, and not across her mouth, was a moment of pride at my self-restraint. Sloshing on the surface of 200 feet deep cold did not provide me the same thrill she obviously enjoyed. Connecting gazes, a stink eye propelled her forward, along with her tune.

Flying solo, last ounces of strength got me to our lunch stop. Exhaustion, dehydration, and nausea culminated with a refusal to continue. My plan was simple: John Lennon would use his emergency radio to call a sightseeing vessel to pick me up. The brochure had, after all, crossed and dotted their legal “T”s and “i”s, assuring the risk-averse that emergency measures were in place should they be needed.

Lennon calmly and quietly revealed the following tidbit of information: He did not have said radio in his possession. We had been off the grid, and the only way out was to traverse the last few miles to the take-out point.

The others backed away as an explosive fit spewed forth from my mouth onto that beach, flooding John Lennon’s zen with the screams of a healthcare demon. An obvious lack of safety measures was the high point, peppered with expletives, how-could-you’s, and what-if’s.

Onward we went. A quick watercraft reassignment placed my groom and I together, with him providing much-needed strength in the stern, and me, a useless heap in the bow. A mile in, claustrophobia shrouded rational thought as I fidgeted to abandon ship. Dazed and confused, my prince’s piercing yell thankfully penetrated my mental fog, settling me temporarily.

But my stomach was not settled. Suddenly leaning precariously toward port side, I violently hurled, feeding my lunch to the fish down below. Buffy sculled past, shouting the collective sentiment of “Don’t worry, we’re ALL feeling that way!” Maybe she could be a friend after all.

With a freshly-empty stomach, strength anew, and hope on the horizon, I now paddled like hell to the shore. Determined to never grace the surface of a lake again, I kissed the sand on arrival. I quickly loaded my gear and crawled into the hard school bus seat for the bumpy ride back to civilization. After the past days, that austere bus provided the comfort of a down mattress.

As we disbanded, John Lennon gave me a final thumbs up for effort while casually munching on granola, nonplussed at my continued agitation. While the others thanked him for the fun, I secretly wished he had a posse of black flies in his underpants.

Reflecting on the trip provided shudders, swear words, and an overwhelming gut response to avoid any watercraft. But it also highlighted the necessity of uncomfortable perseverance to see a process through to its end, the grandeur of nature, and the simple enjoyment of the night sky and a campfire. As well as having a few safety measures in place.

Our guide’s bohemian demeanor offered me a glimpse of what not sweating the small stuff looked like. Aside from the radio mishap, this was a guy who lived minimally and intentionally, soaking up the simple joys of life, and possessed the courage to seek a countercultural existence. Besides a freakish resemblance to a Beatle, he was true to himself, an important affirmation in a complicated world.

It has taken well over twenty years, but nudged by peer pressure from daughters and adult friends, plus a couple decades of maturity, a toe has now been inching back toward the shore. A protected lake, a home around the corner with running water, indoor plumbing, and properly chilled provisions, and a waterproof cell phone with service are compelling reasons for a revisit.

Will I paddle in the future? Perhaps.

But not if John Lennon has anything to do with it.