Twenty-five years ago, at the age of 15, my right leg was amputated due to cancer.

After my amputation, my mother sent me to an adventure camp where I was exposed to whitewater canoeing, which sparked my interest in paddling. But it was not until a cold winter day nine years later that I had my first experience in a sea kayak. I was instantly hooked. I loved how the kayak cut through the water with speed and grace, and since I was accustomed to using both arms to get around on crutches, paddling felt natural and I wanted more.

Three months later, a few friends, my future wife and I went on a four-day kayaking trip to Masonboro Island, North Carolina. It was this challenge of not being able to control the elements and environment—having to adapt to tides, weather and unexpected situations— that inspired me.

Over the years, I’ve adapted my kayak as well. I removed the right thigh brace, which serves me no purpose. To compensate, I glued a shaped foam block under my left knee to give me more control with this leg. Next, I modified the right hip pad, turning it vertical so it would push my hip against the back band, giving me a tighter fit in the cockpit. It’s not enough to allow me to roll up or surf to my right side, but it lets me edge my kayak better to the left. Though these are limitations, they are also valuable challenges that keep me humble when on the water.

In 1998, I started an outreach kayaking program for teens at the local YMCA. I wanted to expose youth to situations they could not control, but had to overcome—the difficult lessons I learned as a teen battling cancer. At first, the kids saw me as handicapped. After watching me unload the kayaks from the trailer and gearing them up without skipping a beat, they would quickly realize that limitations are only what you make them. This was the reason why they believed me when I told them they could kayak.

To enhance the quality of the program, I acquired my BCU 3 Star Kayak Award, Rescue Award and Level 2 Instructor. This training was not adapted for me and I was expected to perform all the skills that were necessary to pass the course. I was honored to have my instructor assessment performed by the legendary Derek Hutchinson. By the time I left the Y 10 years later, 1,000 new campers were being given the opportunity to try kayaking each summer.

Kayaking puts me on an even playing field with my peers. After the amputation, I could still do things like cycle and play basketball, but I could never perform at the level I did before. In a sea kayak, I was suddenly ahead of the curve, teaching my friends to be better paddlers.

I have excelled at the sport. Maybe it’s because of all the kids I’ve towed throughout the years, my willingness to paddle out in bigger surf or my love of paddling in rough water. Or maybe it’s just a simple appreciation of overcoming tough challenges.

Wes Hall continues to teach and safety boat in North Carolina and strives to expose more physically challenged people to the benefits of paddling.

The fleeting moment in time captured in the above photo—like every moment in our lives, and every photograph—is unique and unrepeatable. For me, that’s the magic of photography.

In the popular doctrine of photography, this is not a great shot. A professional eye would notice the crooked horizon, over-exposed sky and not-quite-sharp focus. A better composed portrait would not be—or at least not reveal that it was—shot at arm’s length by the subject. Nor would it be shot with a disposable camera purchased pre-loaded with Kodak Max 400 at Wal-Mart.

Professional photography instructor and frequent contributor Neil Schulman notes that in a strong image, the photographer “creates tension and anticipation through composition,” urging the viewer to imagine what happens next. This image contains no such tension, the faces seem relaxed, the anticipation passed. But that is precisely why I like it.

The disheveled hair, tanned faces and satis- fied smiles hint at an exciting story—the subtle “Just give ‘er” stitched into the polypro suggests that it might even be an epic story…

Conor called the Rock to Rock a “rite of passage”—a balls-to-the-wall straight shot down 80 kilometers of Lake Superior coast from Michipicoten Bay’s Rock Island to Sinclair Cove’s Agawa Rock. We slipped our kayaks into the river and drifted out onto the lake at 2:30 a.m. under a moonless sky. As dawn broke somewhere off Grindstone Point, a thick fogbank closed in around us and we placed all of our faith in the magnetically charged needle on Conor’s bow. Another hour of paddling and the fog lifted, the wind came howling out of the north and the lake blew itself into a seething frenzy.

Conor sailed down the wave faces, hooting with delight. The 22-foot tandem that I sterned was less nimble—it wallowed in the troughs like a wounded water buffalo, burying

Kim to her armpits while I perched high and dry on the following wave crest. Conor and the distant shore alternately appeared and vanished behind the lumpy wave tops.

As we neared the soaring rose granite and ancient pictographs of Agawa Rock, the lake seemed to tear at our victory with the combined power of its many manitous. Fuelled by Twizzlers, Mars bars, vitamin I and a fierce desire to stay upright (Kim and I had yet to master the tandem roll), we battled with sets reaching 10 feet high. I’m sure my hapless bow partner wasn’t exactly filled with confidence by my invocation, repeated loudly as each wave descend- ed over us,“holy shit, holyshit, HOLYSHIT!”

We reheated wind-chilled limbs on the sun-warmed, black basalt “survival rocks” in Sinclair Cove before huddling for this self-portrait. When I look at it now, I see all the excitement, euphoria and exhaustion of our 13-hour accomplishment.

It’s said a photograph is worth a thousand words. If this is true—and, at the risk of making my job obsolete, I believe it can be (after all, I’ve just written 500 about this one)—than a photo annual, while light on text, is immeasurably rich in stories. 

Senior editor Virginia Marshall has since upgraded her camera kit, but she still loves the written word.