Wilson

"Nothing is softer or more flexible than water, yet nothing can resist it."
-Lao Tzu

It's already mid morning when I leave shore but I'm barely out of the bay when I realize the rudder's not working and have to turn back. The water is calm, the air is still, but my waiter at lunch yesterday warned me, "Morning's are always nice, but lately the wind starts at noon, then the rains come", and I can't shake a sense of urgency while I try to fix the lines. It doesn't take me long to correct the problem but by the time I'm back on the water the sun is already set to broil.

Still, I sing as I paddle into the lethargic waves. For the first time in far too long, I feel well rested and strong. I try not to think about a long list of things that worry me, bother me, or make me sad: the Dude, sharks, my brother, tsunamis, my future. This isn't a day for troubles. It's a day to let the earth rock me in her salt water womb and be blinded by the optimistic sun.

I am halfway across the sea, heading east to the string of islands saluting against the skyline when the wind picks up. The waves begin to form white caps and I mutter and curse, adjusting my rudder and switching my paddling from skim to dig. It doesn't take long for me to realize it's futile; just a moment's hesitation and I'm pushed farther back than where I started. But, I'm nothing if not stubborn, so I spend an hour paddling and progress at least a quarter mile.

From the growl in my stomach and the burning heat overhead I can tell it's past noon. I stop for some water, but the break means I'm pushed back by the defensive waves. I try to recover the lost distance but I've lost any drive or spirit to conquer. Discouraged, I lift my paddles out of the water and let the waves rock me. Even if I exert myself beyond my limits, I won't make it to the nearest island until late afternoon. This, after thinking I'd have crossed the sea and be having a picnic and swim by noon.

In no time at all this simple reality joins all the thoughts I've pushed away so far today and swelled to become a flood of all my other defeats and failures. What, I think, simultaneously worrying that a peaking wave is actually a fin, is wrong with me? How did I end up here? How does it all come to this? How am I ever going to get what I want? 

The stodgy voices of my youth, my upbringing, answer certainly: you just have to work harder. Your problem is you're not ambitious enough. You don't apply yourself. You're a quitter. 

Perhaps because they are familiar, these voices, I find them comforting. I believe them. More than that, I feel relieved they are there to admonish me when I so obviously need to be reminded that, although I am deeply flawed and useless, if I only try harder I may find redemption.

Thus inspired, and spurred on by a certain self-loathing and desire to overcome all my inadequacies beginning with conquering this watery treadmill, I put paddle to water and renew my struggle against the waves. My resolve dissipates in less than two minutes. Contempt begins to well up inside of me but, just before the maniacal cycle of mental flagellation is about to crest I notice one of the islands I'm trying to reach forms the perfect outline of a sitting Buddha. I begin to laugh. I see the water all around me and the slap of the waves across the bow of my kayak no longer rings with the mockery of a foe but is the tickle and nudge of a friend who wants you to get an inside joke.

I don't have an itinerary. There is nowhere I need to be today until dark. I have, momentarily, regressed back to my past life, and become so focused on a goal I've lost sight of the most important life lesson the kayak has taught me: the water is wise. Water always chooses the path of least resistance. Whenever possible, be like water.

So I wait a moment more, the waves rocking and slowly turning my kayak like a compass needle, pointing us towards a metaphorical north. When the sea begins to push me forward, I shrug and join in with my paddle. I am now heading southwest, back where I came from. 

The sun is now a glowering inferno overhead and my monkey mind begins to chatter, once again, with complaint. Everything is easier now, but still I seem determined to wallow in whatever discontent my mind can grasp hold of. It begins: Sure, sea kayaking is fine, but it's as desolate as a desert. It continues: Not at all like home with the constant companionship of turtles and beavers, otters and ducks, birds of all types actually. The trees on the shore rustling welcome and goodbyes, the timid deer making hasty retreats, crackling twigs. It settles in: Out at sea there's nothing but waves and sun, and any possible company could hardly be welcome company. 

So my mind, the great architect of infinite dissatisfaction, carries on until I look up from the water long enough to realize it's brought me to the shadows of a giant, sea bound rock looming higher than a fifty story sky scraper. I paddle closer then let the water carry me to it's sheltering overhang where I sit, agog, marveling at the majesty of the patiently formed stalactites overhead.

I am so awed, in fact, I don't notice another kayak pull up beside me, until a cramp in my neck forces me to avert my gaze. Only then do I realize I am being ogled with an amazement that rivals my own.

"Oh, hello," I say, half startled, half dazed.

The response is a cross between a grunt and a mew, a curious but fitting sound to mark my acquaintance with The Sea Hermit.