For one year while I went to university I lived by the ocean. All I had to do to launch my kayak was walk across the road. That’s when I learned I have a paddling impulse that’s triggered by light. If the afternoon turned out calm, and the light had a certain quality, a warm colour and softness just before sunset, my internal light meter would command me to “ctrl+S” whatever document I was hammering on in my basement apartment, grab the rubbermaid with the duct tape label that says “paddling” and make for the garage. It was a luxury to be able to respond whenever the impulse struck.
More often, this happens on a trip. Tents are set up, sleeping bags laid out, dishes are washed and the food put away. Then somebody gets the crazy urge to drag a boat back down to the water. It’s a sort of frenzy to capture what remains of the day, like the mania that grips photographers during the afternoon’s terminal moments. We become like teenagers driving the strip, loving our rides so much that we’ll just cruise when there’s no place to go. With stomachs full of pasta and muscles so tired that paddling should be the last thing on our minds, we go out anyway be- cause life’s that short.
One time on the west coast there was a strong, warm wind coming in off the water; we put in on the sheltered side of the islands and paddled around to where we could just sit in the lee of the rocks and ride the swell. We faced the west wind and floated there until the big ball of the sun dropped into the sea. If we could only understand why this feels so good, put it in a bottle and sell it; we’d be rich. Then again, we can put it in a kayak; and we are.
This article first appeared in the Early Summer 2006 issue of Adventure Kayak Magazine. For more great content, subscribe to Adventure Kayak’s print and digital editions here.
