The first few days of a solo trip are always the hardest for me. The weaning of myself from the dependency and perceived conveniences of the city. My truck, my computer, my cell phone and my day timer. My companions of everyday survival in the city. The trappings of my perceived success. A business, a rushing of one place to another, yet no pattern, no rhythm, no consciousness. A dance. A dance of self -imposed deceit, delusion. A game.
In these first few days I have to earn the right to be out here. Alone. The rights of passage. The loneliness, the fears, the insecurities and the doubts all push through my mind with a grating familiarity. Why am I here? As the addictions of society begin to loosen their grip on my soul with every paddle stroke further away, I feel movement within my extinguished spirit. My being, my tormentor, my driving force as to why I continue to do this. As to why I come to these places. Alone. Alive. To be.
In the city my senses dull, sluggish, asleep. I am only awake when I am sleeping. When I am dreaming of these remote places. I am awake when I am asleep in the city. Rushing. Driving. Wasting life energy. Busy. A numbing of my senses as to who I am and what I am doing in this life. A necessity for survival with sanity, in the city.
Out here, I feel an awakening, a purpose, a reason for every action, every paddle stroke, every breath a gift, a taste, a smell of life. My eyes begin to open once more, and I begin to live each moment in the moment. Introspection. Perspective. I am worried about what my tomorrows will bring. Will they bring success and safety? Or will they be the wrong decisions, made by me, for me. Hesitation.
I have skills that I have acquired over the years, but the greatest skill in my favour is to judge when it is not safe for me on the water. When the ocean is not in the mood to tolerate my intrusion. When I am an interloper on her surface. There is no skill in the world that is going to protect me if the sea does not want me to be with her. She is the one that decides, not I. She is an impartial mistress.
Today was challenging. A three-metre swell, with a two-foot breaking chop on top of this. Confused seas. The wind was sixteen knots, trailing my kayak, like a hound on a scent. Pushing. Tormented. Focused. I felt good, relaxed, alert and very respectful. I want the ocean to know that I respect her with all my being, but I don’t want to be afraid of her. To be afraid of her is to be afraid of myself.
There has been a lot of high cirrus wisping in from the southeast all afternoon. Also, a large sun halo. I know the weather is going to change, but when, is the gamble? I can only hope that I have said the right mantras, listened to the wind with my heart, and been honest within myself, to make the right decisions.
The taste of the sun on the corner of my mouth, an image of a cloud reflected in my eyes. A feeling of the strength of the ocean within me. An understanding of where I am. An empathy for the restlessness of the wind, and the shimmering of light suspended in a water droplet from my paddle blade. A connection.