And Lisa Williams does that…describing her kayak trip into the ocean in such a way that I can go along for the ride with her. She includes details of how she practices capsizing, which equipment she’s carrying, and what she’s seeing and hearing as she paddles. I can almost see and feel it myself.
I go past Woodbridge Island towards the open ocean it starts to rain. Being in a very small boat is being in a bifurcated world: above, air; below, water. You hover on the membrane separating them. When it rains, this crisp dividing line gets a little blurred.
Somehow, rain when I’m in the kayak is pleasant. It’s not pleasant when I’m just walking outside, and I hate riding my bike in it. But in the kayak, paddling through the rain just seems like swimming on the payment plan.
Oops. I look back at the shore. Or, more precisely, where I think the shore is. The rain hitting the ocean has caused a thick mist of fog to settle over the water. I had marked a construction crane along the shoreline on my way out, remembering that as I went back in, the ramp would be just to the left of the crane, and the crane would be visible from at least a half-mile offshore.
Except when there’s fog.
I read this story this morning as my own mind was still a bit foggy. It was a wonderful way to wake up, traveling out on the ocean with shell and paddle, hovering on that membrane between air and water, waking and dreaming, clear and blurry. Thanks, Lisa. I’ve got warm feet too.
