Deep Water

It’s a love-hate relationship.

Vast bodies of water are one of my absolute favorite experiences. The power of an endless, roaring ocean; the inspiring sight of a sparkling blue lake; water so still it provides a mirror-perfect reflection of trees and mountains or touched by the wind to create ripples and whitecaps; ferries carrying their precious cargo; boats lining a marina. So much for the senses to take in.

Funny, how I have fear of the very thing I am drawn to. I am interested in looking at it; in being on top of it. I have little desire to be in it or under it.

While my husband snorkeled in Maui; I floated along the top of the water, dipping my head in every so often to take a picture of him. I’ve always considered breathing underwater to be a thing best left for fish! Water skiing was cause for internal struggle. The skiing part was exhilarating; but my delight was tempered by having to begin and end in the deep, dark water.

Thankfully, on numerous occasions, a love for adventure and desire to challenge myself has prevailed over my fear. A trip to picturesque Orcas Island, part of the San Juan Islands of Washington, was host to one such occasion. When visiting Orcas, a popular thing to do is go sea kayaking in the Puget Sound.

Let’s take just a moment to analyze these two words:

Sea = deep, vast water; animals swimming amongst and beneath, including whales.
Kayaking = self-propelled human travel via a narrow, canoe-like, tippable boat, using an oar.

Our trip began with a lesson in how to maneuver the kayak and handle a possible tip. The very mention of which caused a combination of heart palpitations and nervous goosebumps. We were led to believe that, if our kayak were to tip over, we could perform a kayak roll using a swift lift-of-the-torso-hip-flicking-paddle-pushing action. I was fairly certain, though I didn’t share this with the guide or my husband, that – if I were upside down in the sea in a kayak – I would be spending more time figuring out how to get my lower half loose from the skirt attaching me to the kayak, and less time perfecting the roll technique.

Thankfully, neither method was put to the test.

As we floated away from the dock, getting a feel for how to propel and steer the vessel with our paddles and realizing the kayak was more stable than expected, the pounding in my chest slowed.

The sights and sounds surrounding us were stunning: water gently lapping against the kayak, hills of evergreens, snow-capped mountains, and blue sky mottled with cotton-ball clouds. It was peaceful, exhilarating, and the fact that I was playing a part in making the kayak move forward and turn filled me with a sense of strength.

As our group paddled out to the open sea, seals poked their heads out of the water to watch as we paddled through their space. A sea plane descended from the sky, landing effortlessly on the water. And, much larger vessels glided by, causing ripples that created a mini-roller coaster sensation for us kayakers. Unfortunately, though … no Orca whales were spotted. We would see them frolicking in the water at another time and place.

When the day was done, I was filled with energy and passion for the sport. My husband and I even discussed the possibility of purchasing a kayak to use on the river back home. Of course, those dreams were tempered by the reality of an apartment balcony that could not accommodate a large kayak and the realization that our visits to the river would likely be few and far between.

The kayak was not the important thing, though … it was the exhilarating feeling of a fear overcome. It’s still not my preference to be in the deep water. But I learned that, sometimes, the deepest water can bring the greatest joy.