The first day on the island, the ocean was choppy, the surge was leg-ripping. I stayed away.
The second day was calm but I didn't expect it, and I'd made other plans. I stayed away.
The third day, minutes after I awoke (sad I'd missed day two), I walked down to the sea and watched the waves. The winter surge was still strong and the waves thundered at the peak of every set. A lull followed. I spent 20 minutes measuring. Watching. Thinking about timing. I would enter right now, and then I waited to confirm. Each time I was right.
Tony helped me carry the kayak to the ocean. Together, we picked a spot with the smallest waves. I headed out to sea. I duplicated my morning watch. Picking out the distant surge, measuring it for size and thunder. I back paddled and stayed in the froth until it was time to go.
The seemingly perfect moment came. Three or four build up waves, a crusher, a settling down. A lull. My lull. I paddled hard. I looked up and immediately knew I'd miscalculated. I was surprised and waited to be slammed. The wave had risen out of nowhere. I said an unsavory word under my breath and surrendered.
The waves played smash ball with me and my kayak. Sea water rushed through my nose, my ears; it filled my wet suit. My hair was mangled; sea water drained from my mouth. I recovered the kayak, the paddle and headed out to sea. Again. The smash ball gave wasn't over. The sea had had enough of me. The door was closed. I rode in on the back of a small wave and was ready to give up.
Tony knew I'd be disappointed. He helped me carry the kayak farther up the beach to a spot he'd scouted out. I doubted, but waited, and the sea opened her arms. I doubled down. I was way past the wave break when I relaxed.
While paddling away from the sun, it blissfully shined. I knew I'd have to turn around soon, but didn't look forward to its glare. When I did turn around, a lofty cloud covered it up. More clouds moved in.
By the time I'd traversed up and down the bay, the waves had settled. I rode a calm wave to the shore. Tony had waited.
It was the best kayak day ever.
The second day was calm but I didn't expect it, and I'd made other plans. I stayed away.
The third day, minutes after I awoke (sad I'd missed day two), I walked down to the sea and watched the waves. The winter surge was still strong and the waves thundered at the peak of every set. A lull followed. I spent 20 minutes measuring. Watching. Thinking about timing. I would enter right now, and then I waited to confirm. Each time I was right.
Tony helped me carry the kayak to the ocean. Together, we picked a spot with the smallest waves. I headed out to sea. I duplicated my morning watch. Picking out the distant surge, measuring it for size and thunder. I back paddled and stayed in the froth until it was time to go.
The seemingly perfect moment came. Three or four build up waves, a crusher, a settling down. A lull. My lull. I paddled hard. I looked up and immediately knew I'd miscalculated. I was surprised and waited to be slammed. The wave had risen out of nowhere. I said an unsavory word under my breath and surrendered.
The waves played smash ball with me and my kayak. Sea water rushed through my nose, my ears; it filled my wet suit. My hair was mangled; sea water drained from my mouth. I recovered the kayak, the paddle and headed out to sea. Again. The smash ball gave wasn't over. The sea had had enough of me. The door was closed. I rode in on the back of a small wave and was ready to give up.
Tony knew I'd be disappointed. He helped me carry the kayak farther up the beach to a spot he'd scouted out. I doubted, but waited, and the sea opened her arms. I doubled down. I was way past the wave break when I relaxed.
While paddling away from the sun, it blissfully shined. I knew I'd have to turn around soon, but didn't look forward to its glare. When I did turn around, a lofty cloud covered it up. More clouds moved in.
By the time I'd traversed up and down the bay, the waves had settled. I rode a calm wave to the shore. Tony had waited.
It was the best kayak day ever.
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