72 hours. That’s the longest I’ve been pinned down on shore, waiting for a break in the weather. Back on those wind-lashed cobblestones, three days felt like an eternity.

When I was guiding sea kayaking trips full-time, one of my most inspiring—and exasperating—clients was a septuagenarian from Germany named Max. Athletic and high-strung, he was not in the habit of waiting for anyone or anything. Our weeklong trip together was plagued by high winds and we were often driven ashore miles short of our planned camp, waiting for safer conditions.

Max grew restless as soon as we’d hit shore. Pacing the beach, heedless of the foaming seas, his eyes fixated on some distant headland. “We’re going now?” he’d ask before long, the words sounding more like a command than a question.

At my earlier suggestion, the other members of our group had already set up their tents and immersed themselves in books or beachcombing. But Max’s Feathercraft—purchased especially for this trip—remained at the water’s edge, fully packed and ready to launch.

Worried he might make a solo break for it, I tried reasoning with him. Max was a retired engineer, so I assured rationally, “The forecast is for lighter winds tomorrow—it won’t be any trouble to make up lost miles.” When that failed, I appealed to his inquisitive nature, “The map indicates a waterfall on this creek…why don’t you hike up and try to find it?” Nothing. I tried empathy, “You’re a strong paddler Max—I know you could handle these waves but we must wait until it’s safe for the entire group.”

Still, Max moped around our island like a prisoner. Finally, I could take no more. “Max!” I pressed him, “What’s the hurry?”

That’s when I learned that my elderly German guest, having literally waited a lifetime to paddle in the Canadian wilds, was not interested in waiting a moment longer. “One third of life is sleeping and one fifth is waiting,” he said by way of explanation. With Max, some things got lost in translation. But I understood his meaning perfectly—he simply couldn’t afford to squander the rest.

I waited seven years to road trip to British Columbia with my kayak (a trip that yielded the itinerary in “Hit the Road,” page 64 of this issue). If there’s one regret I have about those two blissful months of exploring, it’s that I didn’t do it sooner.

For this special issue of Adventure Kayak, we asked correspondents, friends and readers what adventures and experiences top their life lists. Then we took all those inspiring plans and aspirations and packed as many as we could into a single year. Because why wait a lifetime to live your dreams?

When she’s not waiting for next issue’s drafts, Adventure Kayak editor Virginia Marshall lives her dreams one paddle stroke at a time.

 This article originally appeared in Adventure Kayak, Spring 2013. Download our free iPad/iPhone/iPod Touch App or Android App or read the rest of the issue here for free. 

This editorial about the outdoor Fun Scale originally appeared in Canoeroots and Family Camping magazine.

It happens to me on most trips. Usually on a portage, the yoke grinding against my collar bones; the unevenly packed food barrel on my back pulling just enough to one side to make me miss every third step; the drone of mosquitoes inside the overturned hull reminding me that if I swing an arm to swat, I’m going down. It’s the moment when I question whether I’m having fun.

It’s no wonder I’m often met with a blank stare after trying to convince non-paddlers that this stuff is enjoyable. Sometimes I feel like telling people that if they have to ask, they probably won’t understand. But I want to share the good feeling I get from canoeing and writing people off is unproductive.

So, my strategy has been to use the Fun Scale. If you’re into mountain climbing, you may have heard of the scale before. A mountaineering guide first introduced me to the concept and it applies just as well to canoeing as it does to climbing.

Type I fun is the purest type of fun. It’s fun while it’s happening. It would be great if it never ended, and when it does end, it can’t happen again too soon. It’s bluebird days, skinny-dipping, long weekends, s’mores or stopping for a cold beer and a hamburger on the way home. It’s the moments you hope for when planning your trip. Curiously, the giddy feeling Type I fun instills rarely lasts long enough to sustain me until my next trip.

In the moment, you’d be hard pressed to call Type II stuff fun. You might be glad when it’s over and you’re probably not looking forward to it happening again. For me, Type II usually includes long portages, five a.m. wake-up calls, weather-bound days, collecting firewood, plain oatmeal and blackfly season. This type of fun makes for great campfire stories and inspires me to plan my next trip. It may involve rattled nerves and frustration while it’s happening, but it builds character and makes us better paddlers and better people.

Type III fun isn’t fun at all. Not while you’re doing it, not afterwards. It can’t be over fast enough and you look forward to the day when you forget it ever happened. Examples of this one are limited only by the imagination. I’ve had my share of Type III moments. In fact, the guide that shared the Fun Scale with me did so as I was being evacuated from an Alaskan mountainside with a perforated lung. The old saying “what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger” applies here. And while that might be the case, it doesn’t mean I want to relive those moments and it’s difficult to look back on them with a smile.

When doubt creeps into my head, I make an effort to recognize it’s probably just a Type II moment. Type II fun is, after all, still fun. And when the trip is over, I can relate my experiences, making fellow paddlers smile around a campfire and helping those who have to ask understand a little better.

Michael Mechan has developed a knack for turning Type III moments into Type II fun.

This article appeared in Canoeroots & Family Camping, Spring 2012. Download our free iPad/iPhone/iPod Touch App or Android App or read it here.

It was already afternoon and we had yet to launch the boats. I had been duped—this wasn’t a paddling trip with friends! The strange thing is, I didn’t care. It was, after all, still a trip with friends.

Paddling can be many things to many people. Tripping with friends. Soaking up afternoon sunshine. Exploring new places and revisiting favorites. Sleeping under the stars. Living well outdoors. Fitness. Therapy. Adventure. Challenge. I noted this on Facebook after my trip and asked readers, why do you paddle?

Some cited the ability to get away from the urban clamor. “It gets me into the outdoors to explore nature,” shared Penny Swisher Hartlaub. “You can enjoy nature without really intruding on it,” wrote Mira Chambers Robins. “The nearly complete silence—I can ease up along the shore and watch turtles and ducks nesting,” agreed Garrett Martin.

For Rod Bailey, “It is the independence to do whatever I want on the water.”

Many echoed Farid Silman Winstanley, who replied, “Peace, freedom and sometimes adrenaline.” Denise Hexum confided, “It gives me peace—sometimes I run to the water.”

One of the last posts reads: “It’s my Zen!” My mind reaches back to an image of Seinfeld’s Frank Costanza raising his hands to the sky and yelling “Serenity now!” in a tone that was anything but serene. I look at the Zen author’s profile picture. She certainly looks relaxed.

Paddling has an alchemist’s transformative touch. Exercise and exposure to sunlight, both common ingredients in time on the water, stimulate production of serotonin, the happiness hormone. Increased physical fitness contributes to a host of health benefits too numerous to name.

Further, the act of discovery and exploration, and the challenge of developing new skills, can actually grow your brain. Acquiring a complex motor skill—like learning to roll a kayak—exercises our brains as well as our bodies, stimulating new neural growth and pathways and increasing cognitive function.

And, of course, there are the people we meet and the relationships we develop through our aquatic passions. “I kayak with a great group of people,” attested Shar McCoy Mallory on the Facebook poll.

Moving around the country has left me with friends scattered far and wide. Many I met through paddling, and most often it’s this activity that continues to bring us together. Even if we spend more time sharing stories around the campfire or lounging in the sunshine than we do making miles on the water.  

This article first appeared in the December issue of Paddling Magazine.

 “So what is it that you do?”

I hate that question. Not because I find it offensive and intrusive. It’s just that, unless the person who asked is a paddler, he won’t understand the answer.

Most people consider the question to be about work—a separate question from what you do for fun. Since paddling has been both my work and play for the last decade, my answer throws people off.

I used to answer truthfully, trying to capture the essence of what we do and why we do it. Explaining what we do isn’t that difficult. Explaining why we do it—not so easy.

The more I try to explain that we paddle for the feeling of focus we get when being tossed around by powerful currents, the sensation of flying when our boats plane out on glassy waves or the blissful state of being when we glide across the mirrored surface of a lake on a misty morning, the more perplexed they become.

It’s around this point that the person regrets asking the question in the first place. Head cocked to one side, staring at you with a squinty gaze and uncomfortable silence are all common signs the person wishes they had chosen instead to talk about the weather, Hollywood celebs or the rising price of gas.

What vexes me the most is that, if I had answered with golf, hock­ey, knitting, soccer, juggling, photography, football, running, biking, playing guitar or dog training—they’d nod and smile.

How is it that smacking a dimpled ball into a tiny cup a few hun­dred yards away makes sense and paddling doesn’t? Trying to keep a hunk of pigskin off the ground while a dozen giants attempt to make you a greasy spot on the grass seems reasonable but getting up to watch the sunrise from my boat is too crazy?

I’ve decided over the years that paddling isn’t just something that can be justly described to the unknowing. It has to be experienced. That’s why I developed a system for dealing with the, So-what-is-it-you-do? question. It’s simple. When someone whose company I enjoy asks, I offer to show them. It’s the best—and maybe only—was for them to truly understand why we do what we do.

For the benefit of all the others, I answer, “I’m a doctor.” My raft guide bullshitting skills allow me to fake it through most situations. Unless, of course, you’re a doctor or familiar with my system.

Dan Caldwell plays doctor on the banks of the Ottawa River. 

This editorial originally appeared in the 2013 Paddling Buyer’s Guide. Download our free iPad/iPhone/iPod Touch App or Android App or read it on your desktop here.