1.
A few days ago, the most radiant summer day enticed me to set out on my longest solo kayak yet. I had work to do, but the world was a’ calling. As I made my way across the mud flats to find enough water to launch myself, I had no particular destination in mind. Soon, though, I knew exactly where I wanted to go, without ever deliberately deciding.
Although not epically far, the paddle to this selected spot grew more formidable with the addition of some wind and waves. On the way up the fjord, I had moments of wondering if I was moving at all. By the time I pulled into the sheltered cove of my destination, a good back stretch and nap were in order.
On the way back, the combination of wind and tide made for some big waves, which, while speeding me homewards, provoked some thoughts on the subject of adventuring alone. I’ve always been a solitary runner. In general, I don’t have many problems heading out by myself: I prefer daydreaming to chitchatting, and don’t scare easily. Out alone, in the middle of the deserted fjord, though, I started to wonder why I wasn’t more nervous. True, the trusty teal craft had proved perfectly sea-worthy many times before. The likelihood of ending up upside down appeared low. Problem was, plan B seemed pretty non-existent.
Before landing in Reñihue, my experience in a sea kayak consisted of a four day family trip at age 13, when shell-collecting preoccupied me more than paddling. I’ve received one instructional tidbit so far, from Doug: spray skirt goes on back to front. I get a kick out of figuring a little more out each day, about tides, mud flats, wave surfing, and paddling. But not knowing how much I don’t know can feel intimidating—how am I to measure my stupidity?
On a bright blue day, with clusters of unclimbed peaks poking out behind hills, I want to adventure boldly into the marvelous place I’ve ended up. Sometimes I worry I’m too timid; other times I fear I’m too cavalier. Going solo, I’m learning, means never having a measure on your judgment. The correctness of a decision and the appropriateness of nervousness remain ambiguous. Mulling this over as I surf the waves home, I hear some echoes of the challenges of this stage of life. Is this the age to settle into a work routine or strike off on eclectic adventures? Everyone will tell you something, but strongly inflected with their own past.
I took this photo when I arrived back home; the tide had come up enough for me to paddle up this little estuary to the driveway. Given that my largest concern had been damage to camera, not loss of life or limb, I whipped it out with delight to record the moment. Part of my brain, glad to be back, was already considering snack possibilities, but another part looked at the perfection of this day for adventure, and felt glad to have seized the opportunity.
2.
So this project has encountered some delays. Now, ever onwards…
I could not imagine sleeping in a more perfect bed than the one I nestle into here in Reñihue: cozy, tucked up in the second floor sleeping loft, but with a window that opens up right beside it. When the clouds take one of their infrequent vacations, the large sprawling lump of a volcano greets me in the morning. I haven’t figured it out exactly, but have realized that it’s hard to feel lonely here. The idea of living alone in a little house in middle-of-nowhere south Chile can seem daunting, but the actual space comforts more than intimidates.
Early the other morning, I mysteriously woke up just as a spectacular sunrise glowed outside. With no intention of getting up for the day, I scampered outside, camera in hand and dew on foot, to document the phenomenon. I can’t explain why I had actually opened my eyes before the alarm on this very morning, but this sense of luck sweetened up this moment. I may be guilty now and then of color-enhancement, in the photo realm, but not here. Photo-taking complete, I jumped back in bed to watch the superfluous pastels fade into the utilitarian brightness of morning, gradually falling asleep.
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