It was a typically stressful workday. I spent most of the afternoon watching the clock. As soon as it was acceptable, I was out the door and on my way to the lighthouse, one of my favorite sites for solo outings on the Gulf of Mexico. I had loaded my kayak onto the car the night before and arrived at work ready for a quick getaway.
The road through the St. Marks Wildlife refuge in North Florida is nearly ten miles long and provides an expansive view of the marshes, the big tidal pools and the abundant wildlife. Countless waterfowl bespeckled the landscape. A pair of Bald Eagles reigned from atop an isolated snag. Several massive alligators plied the waterways and I had to stop for a raccoon crossing the road. A big river otter played cheerfully in one of the tidal pools.
When I reached the lighthouse I was so eager to get started that I didn't notice the brisk wind until I was a few yards out into a slightly choppy sea. I discovered the hard way that I had forgotten to seal my spray skirt. No matter, it was 75 degrees and sunny. A little seawater in my lap wasn't going to do any harm.
After adjusting my skirt, I dug in and headed east, angling slightly into the wind and sea. I was glad that conditions were demanding enough to require concentration. I fixed my attention on establishing a strong and steady pace. I watched the waves intently, deliberately counting their frequency and length and matching my cadence to them. I love paddling like this. Intense focus only on the motion of my body in concert with that of the sea purges my mind of all other thoughts. The sources of my stress disappear.
A single Brown Pelican soared past me with perfect precision an inch above the surface of the sea. I paused and realized that I was already further offshore than I usually like to be solo so I turned, lowered my skeg, altered my pace appropriately and surfed toward a clump of cabbage palms about three quarters of a mile away. I was in waters familiar to me but along a remote section of coast where other people are seldom seen. The distant palms were swaying rhythmically behind a tiny patch of sand glistening silver in the sun. An osprey soared above touching me with his shadow. My body felt youthful, sinewy and strong. I felt that I could go on like this for days and the short ten miles I had planned would seem like little more than a warm-up.
I beached among myriad little fiddler crabs scurrying out of my path and waving their oversized claws frenetically. There is nothing very unusual about this place but at this moment the beauty of it was sublime. I lay on my back for a while staring at the sky and listening to the sea.
I re-launched and headed for the tiny islet that is my accustomed turning point. By the time I rounded it, the wind had died and the sea had gone smooth. A Loon came near and repeatedly disappeared into the water for an impossibly long period and then bobbed back up suddenly in the least expected place.
As I started back toward the lighthouse, my paddle felt almost weightless and the lightest touch seemed to make me soar over the now perfectly becalmed sea. I was approaching the lighthouse too soon. The sunset was still twenty minutes off. My plan had been to finish by paddling westward into it. I slackened my pace and moved closer to the beach, dawdling and surveying the marsh beyond until the horizon began to turn to iridescent magenta. I paddled the last mile directly into a spectacular display of brilliant color across my entire field of vision. I was physically invigorated and emotionally elevated.
I make a point of frequent solo paddling in isolated places like this. It replenishes and revitalizes me. It renews the essential unity of mind, body and environment that we all crave and that poets and priests so often allude to. But there is nothing transcendental or religious about this experience. Rather than becoming “one with nature”. I join with it as a partner. Rather than loosing or transcending myself, I rediscover myself at my very best.
