Lost

"I don't feel frightened by not knowing things, by being lost in the mysterious universe without having any purpose, which is the way it really is, as far as I can tell, possibly"

- Richard Phillips Feynman 

I paddle off in the direction of Kho Yao. Just as my waiter had predicted, it's late afternoon and the waves have picked up again; the wind skimming the tops of the swelling tide. To make matters worse I have no clue what part of the miles of shoreline I should be, generally, aiming for. Fortunately, there is little one can do in this situation but paddle and I do. For hours.

But, when the shore is finally close enough for me to identify distinguishing landmarks, I don't recognize anything about it. I paddle to the next bay. This one seems vaguely familiar, in fact I think it might be exactly where I want to land so I head in. When my kayak hits the sand, a tall, athletic Scandanavian woman gets up from her blanket to greet me.

"Is this Coconut Corner?" I ask, while the stern of my kayak is tossed about by the waves.

"I don't know," she answers. Instead of feeling disappointed I am reassured that someone is more lost than me. She asks if she can see my map.

"I still don't know. My friend will tell you. He is also better with English than me."

I hadn't noticed any deficiency in her use of the lingua franca but I wait while Hans strides down the beach to confer with us. He moves like a man who has lost his cross country ski poles but hasn't noticed it yet. As this thought crosses my mind a random wave catches the stern of my kayak and water sloshes into my cockpit. I curse, unhitch the skirt and scrabble clumsily onto the beach.

"Yeees? Can I be ov help to you?"

I look up, waaaay up into the steel grey eyes of a perfectly chiseled, earthbound Norse god.

"Well," I begin, trying to wipe the salt off my face as I proffer my map, "I'm wondering where I am."

He squints at the map, then stoops lower as if trying to read the topography of an anthill on earth from his perch up on Mars.

"'May I?" he asks, gesturing towards the map I've been holding up towards him as an offering.

"Please," I almost beg, while glancing back nervously at my unmanned kayak being roughed up by gangs of shore seeking waves.

"Ahhh, yes, here. You are here." I stand on the tips of my toes and peer over the sides of the map to see where he's pointing. This bay is still miles away from Coconut Corner.

"What?!?!?"

"Yes, yes. These circles are those islands over there," he answers certainly, pointing to the islands I just paddled from. The distance seems impossible. If he's right I would have had to have paddled over ten miles yesterday, which would have been unlikely enough on a calm day if I'd left shortly after dawn, never mind in that storm with only four hours of daylight left.

"Oi," is all I can manage as I take the map from him.

"You seem not to believe me!" He is defiant, daring me to contradict him but I am too exhausted, and if he is right, I still have far too far to paddle to waste any precious seconds arguing.

Instead I say, "It's not that, it's just I'm trying to get down here and I don't think I'm going to make it before dark."

His gaze follows my finger on the map. "Oh yes, you have very far to go, very far," he answers agreeably.

I thank him and try to relaunch my craft. Instead I slip on a rock and tear open my foot, my blood staining the water pink. Odin rushes forward.

"You need help," he announces, scooping me up, plopping me into the kayak and pushing me out to sea. "Good luck," he calls after me. I'm sure he means well, but something about his tone sounds ominous.

The puddle of saltwater I'm sitting in stings my wounded foot, and more water spray is leaking through the skirt as the waves batter me from the east. I try to find a clear line of valleys in the waves to tack into but, like yesterday, the water no longer has a clear purpose. Several times over the next few hours I am actually body checked by random swells.

My arms are numb with exhaustion. At the end of every bay I tell myself, "Just around this corner. It's got to be here," but when I survey the coastlines there are no recognizable landmarks. So I make deals with myself. "Just to the next one. If it's not there you'll stop for the night." It's the only way I can convince myself to keep going until, after rounding the third corner, I begin to make deals with the Universe.

Not deals, exactly, it's more like desperate pleading. "Please," I groan, "please, please let it be the next one. I can't take this anymore." Saltwater stings my eyes and when I open them again I am certain I see a large fin surface on the water fifty yards ahead.

I struggle past two more bays before the third swell strikes. With the sun balancing precariously on the horizon I realize, I will have to stop at the next bay no matter what may lie there. My cockpit is full of blood infused water. One more big wave, two more small ones and I'll have to start bailing that blood scented water into the shark infested sea precisely at their dinner time.

My next five strokes are clumsy, sloppy, efforts that move no water at all. Oh god, I've pushed myself too far. I can't go any farther and I'm at least twenty minutes from the rocky undockable shore. I think of the fin. I lift my paddle out of the water, the kayak sways then surfs a wave two feet closer towards the distant shore. I raise my paddle over my head. My shoulders scream in agony, and I scream out loud in frustration.

Then, with another large swell heading straight towards the broadside of my boat I dig in with a second, angrier yell. The sun has already sunk halfway below the horizon when I round the craggy bend, but the water in this bay is relatively calm. I can smell a campfire burning somewhere on shore and I can only hope that it's keepers are friendly and kind. But the beach is deserted.

I hobble ashore leaving my kayak dangerously close to the tide but unable to pull it out of harms way by myself. I limp my way up the beach, onto the freshly manicured grass towards the giant log burning in the neatly arranged fire pit. There is no one there. No one sitting on the teak wood benches with white upholstered mattresses stuffed so full a Princess wouldn't feel a pea under it, no one basking in the orange glow of the white paper lanterns and no one singing sea shanties and folksy ditties around the blazing yule log.

"Hello?!?!" I call out into the inky night but no one answers. I limp towards the large gazebo that serves, judging by the stainless steel appliances, as an outdoor kitchen.

"Hello?" I call again, moving tenderly towards the wooden deck of the white canvas tent.

Still no answer.

I continue walking through a well tended garden calling as I go but the place is deserted. I look back at the glowing fire which begs to contradict this conclusion and realize, uneasily, that this is how horror movies start. Bored nouveau riche Scandinavians, create an elaborate scheme to hunt people for sport. They set up a kayak shack in a touristy country. They hire a local paying him large sums of hush money to be their front man renting adventure sport equipment to travellers. When their addled prey return they send someone out to meet them, misdirect them, set them farther off course. They light the sort of fire only a Nordic could and wait for their prey to drift ashore. They watch from the darkening corners of the night as she wanders around this seeming paradise. They watch her settle in to this impeccable scene they've created. They wait patiently while she gets comfortable. When she has finally succumbed to the false sense of security they spring from the darkness, the adrenaline kick that her terrified scream injects into their cold, cold hearts is better than all the....

Enough. What choice do I have anyway? I walk gingerly back to the beach. It takes me ten minutes to haul my kayak the six feet required to get it up past the tide line.

I open the hatch, haul out a bamboo mat, the map, my bananas and bottle of water and limp back to the fire. I spread out my belongings, study my map and wait.

The Sea Hermit

To my left I notice a wooden platform nestled amongst the rocks, with laundry hung to dry on the railings. I point to the man and then to the abode. He grunts several times and nods excitedly. Yes, it's his. Then he gestures, inviting me to come and see but I hesitate, still uncertain about him.

I can tell he has some sort of stroke-like speech impediment, or possibly something congenital. It would make sense, I think, to prefer a solitude life if one had always been different. Besides he seems very fit-broad shoulders, well fed and muscular, clear eyes. But it's also this athleticism coalescing with something about him that seems simple, child-like, that strikes me as dangerous, in an Of Mice and Men kind of way.

Sensing my unease he doesn't say anything more, just waits beside me while I try to take some pictures. After a while, he tries again, gesturing that I should follow him. When I nod, his face lights up excitedly and he repeats the gesture to make certain I understand. I laugh and nod, "Yes, yes, I will follow you." He paddles eagerly, with a seemingly exaggerated sense of purpose, his excitement evidenced in his hurried strokes. I imagine he probably doesn't get many visitors, particularly one's so enthralled with his home.

Our first stop is the bat cave. At least I assume the gesture he makes by stretching out his arms and flapping them means bats, not birds. The cave is quite large, there are ropes dangling down to the water to climb to the entrance, and a mat laid out to greet you when you reach the top. He tells me, through gestures, that sometimes he sleeps here.

We paddle only a few feet more before he stops again and points to a tiny inlet. Looking up the stalactites more intricately carved than the spires of even the most ornate gothic cathedrals, dangle like limestone chandeliers. The overhanging rock is a ceiling of sorts but near the top there's a large opening where the sun filters through, a shaft of light permeating the cool dark shade and creating paintings of shifting colours on the canvas of sea below.

I am reminded of one of the memorial chapels in Dachau, a cement tower, dark and cold with a small opening way at the top which was the only source of light. In this way the architect intended to remind anyone who entered that in our darkest moments, if we turn our faces towards heaven, we might find a ray of hope. What strikes me now is how this man, thousands of miles away, from a different time and culture has his very own version of this monument and obviously sees the beauty of that too.

As we continue paddling around the island I notice small wooden shelters and huts built at various points. I follow the water into a miniature hong where I take some photos of birds. Every time I stop for too long, my new friend gestures impatiently for me to hurry and follow him. I feel a bit like I'm following Gaston, the French waiter in "The Meaning of Life", back to his mother's house.

If I'm worried this venture will have the same disappointing end as Monty Python's, any doubt vanishes the instant I catch up with The Hermit. He's waiting for me on his own white sand beach with a flock of turquoise butterflies flitting like a halo above his head.

When I beach my kayak he takes me on a hike showing me delicate flowers, plants he uses as medicine and birds' nests where he collects eggs. "Is this," I say gesturing everywhere, "all yours?"
He nods. "Only?" I ask, but he looks at me uncomprehendingly. I point to him, then me, then to a bunch of other imaginary people then off in the distance. He shakes his head-no, no, no- then points to himself then gestures around the island. All of this is his. His, and his alone. I've just met, I decide, the richest man in the world.

We go back to the beach and I pull out a bamboo mat, food and water. The Hermit takes a banana but refuses to accept anything else. When we've eaten he suggests, through a series of gestures that I must be very sore from all the kayaking. I point to my wrists and nod, then shrug. I'm not used to feathered paddles and my wrists have been causing me trouble for a few years now, particularly when I kayak or do push ups. He asks me if he can have a look. He is sitting beside me, we're both looking out to sea, so I extend my arm out to him.

He takes my wrist and begins to manipulate it, rolling it firmly back and forth between his thumb and four fingers. His hand works its way up my forearm, then back down to my wrist and then, in a flash, I find myself flipped over, face down on the mat.

Stupid, stupid, stupid girl, my mind is racing. Stay calm. But my heart is pounding in my chest. I try to calculate how far away the Big Knife is, where it is. You know how to do this, how to get out of this position, I try to remind myself. What is he...

"OW!" I howl, as he twists my back, and vertebrae snap.

"Tutututut," he answers pitifully before taking his fists and laying them on either side of my spine. He presses down as if they are a defibrillator and my spine's in need of resuscitating.

"OW!" I yelp again.

"Tututututut," comes the same answer before my arm is being bent behind me while my shoulder is being forced towards the ground. Pop!

"Ahhhhh," he says, seemingly satisfied. Though not satisfied enough and he continues to bend me and twist me for the next twenty minutes, muttering and tuttutting all the while like a worried physician. It crosses my mind to inquire about his credentials, training, certificates, licenses and whatnot but, with the language barrier it seems futile.

When he's finished he pulls me up to sitting position and lifts his palms up as if to say "Better?"

I test my neck, rolling it from one side to the other. It still moves without pain, so I smile and nod, bringing the palms of my hands together in thanks. He sits back down beside me and together we watch the waves again. I reach into my dry sac and pull out my watch, the one my work mates gave me as a farewell, with the  maple leaf and compass so I will never forget home.

He is fascinated by it. I try to explain the maple leaf, and Canada and we play with the compass. Then, despite the clock right in front of him, he looks up at the sun and mimes excitedly that it's getting late. If I want to stay on his island I can but if not I need to leave right now. With that he gets up, tosses his kayak into the water and paddles off.

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.

Better Than A Fivestar with Breakfast in Bed

I can't remember the last time

I slept without dreams

I still wake with the shuddering horror of 

empty

alone

ghost pains for all my missing parts

but the horizon looks like a

promise so 

this morning

I linger

in my yielding bed of sand

Beached

The sky is turning to coral pink and I want to get off the water. My body is aching from the paddling and the sitting, I need to pee and I need to set up camp while there's still light. There's also the sharks, which the pocket book authority on the subject assures me, usually feed, and therefor attack, at dusk and dawn. It hasn't been the sort of day to tempt the fates.

It's at least another half a mile until I find a deserted beach and head towards shore. Approaching the beach I become so enamoured of the white sand against the flaming orange of the setting sun I forget all about the ocean behind me. I take too long to get out of my kayak, and end up washed ashore by a wave that also breaks over the stern and fills the cockpit. I scramble onto the beach and pull the kayak onto the sand but with my jellyfish arms it's a struggle. I manage to get the kayak out of the water but, with all the camping gear, it weighs almost as much as I do and dragging it up past the tide line seems impossible.

After bailing the water I accept that my arms are useless to me and crouch down instead, using my legs for both leverage and motion in a sort of crab walk. I make it half way to the tide line then, eying the darkening sky warily, I decide it's best to unload.

I choose a spot at the top of a miniature sand dune beside a sandy gully and underneath a large, bare branched tree to try and set up the tent but the poles are rusted and brittle. The wind is still gusting and I need to anchor it but the pegs are useless in sand. I lose two pegs in the process and end up just tossing as much of my gear inside the tent as possible. It will keep the tent from blowing away but it's a question of when the poles will blow over collapsing the tent, not if.

I walk down the beach one last time to drag the kayak out of the ocean's reach, carefully picking my way around the sand crabs that scuttle from the threat of my feet and scatter to safety. When the kayak is stowed under the bushes that line the beach, I gather up the last of my gear and walk back to the tent, collecting twigs and driftwood.

I dig a pit in the sand, fill it with dry leaves and twigs and light a fire. I unfurl a bamboo beach mat, open my bottle of wine and watch the lightning to the North, East and South of me. I am glad I pitched the precarious tent, certain at least one of those storms will pass over me tonight, but when the wine is gone I fall asleep on the mat gazing up at a blanket of stars and listening to the tide roll in.

Rainbow Connection

"I've believed as many as six impossible things before breakfast."

-Alice Kingsley, Alice in Wonderland

It takes me ten minutes to figure out the best way to negotiate the waves. Paddling into them means I'm heading farther out to sea and the waves are so high and close together I don't have time to climb them so the water continually breaks over the bow threatening to pull me under. If I turn north I'll be side swiped and risk rolling over.

I know I have to tack but I can't keep the kayak on course until I've mastered paddling with a rudder. The waters are confused - the current moving south, the tide rolling in from the east and a furious wind creating top waves from the north, blowing salt water into my eyes- and I am afraid. Terrified in fact. All I want is to head back to shore and wait for calmer seas.

That's a lie. That's almost all I want.

There's a part of me, a small part in the face of this chaotic foe, that refuses to admit defeat. That Part wants to tame the water so I'll never have to be afraid. That Part wants to make the sea my b*tch. That Part also knows the sea is formidable and, put in proper perspective, I am nothing more than a shark snack floating around in a twig. That Part knows the only thing it has any hope of taming is my fear. So it tells my fear to sit down, shut up and dig deep.

I use my nerves and fear to power my strokes but I'm exhausted after a mile. Just a few more feet, That Part repeatedly coaches. Then the rain begins. In less than a minute I am blinded by not only the salt water spray but a wall of water that seems to be simultaneously rising up from the sea as it falls from the sky. I pull my paddle up and try to think but I don't have time. The waves are battering me on three sides and one catches my right blade, nearly tossing me over. I want to go to shore but from what I could see before the rain started, there's nowhere safe to land.

I remember my Sinsei, "Do not exert yourself, except on an exhale. You will waste your energy and defeat yourself before striking down your enemy." I focus on my breathing, synchronize my exhalations to my paddle strokes but every time a wave crests over my bow the slap rings in my ears,  the word "defeat" echoing from the insult. That Part, which has grown exponentially over the last mile and a half and is larger now than any fear, answers simply, "F--- you and your defeat." I paddle this way for about another half mile, vaguely aware that my arms are screaming for mercy, but I am no longer in my body. I am nothing but breath and motion.

And then the sun sweeps in and I glide through the watery wall as if into the clearing of an entirely new world. To my left is a long stretch of deserted white sand beach. I'd be a fool not to head to shore. I look right, towards a string of mountainous islands rising up from the sea, and am paralyzed by awe. Sprawled across the sky in a triumphant arc is a technicolour rainbow more vivid than a Dali painting.  

When I remember to breathe again I think I must take a picture, but just as the thought enters my mind another wave batters me from the side and I realize it's impossible. For a fleeting second I am disappointed before That Part says, No, this moment, that rainbow, is mine. I earned it.

I navigate through the troughs as best I can but I'm sloppy, though not graceless, from the exhaustion and the distraction of the bow tied sky. I think of last summer, rainbow hunting with my father. I think of double rainbow guy. I think of Noah and great big boats and promises. The last of my fear dissipates and the paddling becomes harder without it to fuel me. The waves are still high and chaotic, the wind is still a brutal force against me, but with the painted sky above me I forget all about going ashore.

Kho Yao

"Man cannot discover new oceans unless he has the courage to lose sight of the shore."

-Andre Gide

Zack taps me on the shoulder and nods his head towards an eagle hovering over the cliff to our left. The bird is futilely flapping his wings, unable to fly against the raging wind. Zack and his friend continue to carry the loaded kayak towards the pounding surf while I pause and consider postponing my launch until tomorrow. I push the doubt from my mind and follow the boys with my kayak but when I catch up Zack says, "You know, you can wait until tomorrow."

When I shrug, he nods and says in his sweet melancholy way, "Yeah, your right, it just makes it more of an adventure."

A few hours earlier, Zack greeted me with the slow, penetrating, sadness I associate with the tortured souls of romance poets, maligned musicians and alienated writers.  His, I soon realized, was a much worse affliction because his was a dispossessed soul with nothing to pour all that pain and angst into but a kayak shack.

Much to the amusement of his two friends seated on the log benches, I rose to the challenge, trying to cajole him into better spirits throughout our transaction but failing to elicit even a fleeting, faded smile.

"Do you have someplace I can keep my bag?" I asked before heading to the nearest village to buy food and water.

He let out a pained sigh so heavy with disdain I thought the sheer apathetic force of it might topple his tiny, sinewy frame. "Of course."

Laughing, I picked up my bag, passed it to him and turned to go.

"Good gawd, is there someone living in here?" I stopped to watch him carry my bag away, feeling quite satisfied with myself. I had cracked him. He made a joke.

"Well, in a manner of speaking, yes, yes there is," I replied before setting off, down the gravel road.

When I returned an hour later with 6 bottles of water, bananas, two bags of peanuts and a container with my leftover dinner of chicken and rice, he had all the camping gear laid out on the beach and paperwork ready to sign. His voice still plodding with the heaviness of depression, he handed me 'the big knife' and he deadpanned, "you will need that in the middle of the night when you find you're not really alone."

"Gee, thanks Zack," I replied with mock earnestness, "between you and the guy in Phuket going on about the sharks I'm feeling reassured about my life choices." This time he even cracked a smile.

"Now," he continued, "I just need you to sign this form saying it's not our fault when you die and an emergency contact number or email I can use when you don't make it back. A friend, a relative, ... boyfriend?"

When I smiled but didn't answer his question he retreated and instead tried to reassure me, "I'm kidding you know, about the not coming back. No one's ever not come back."

Once the paperwork was in order he pulled out a map to point out favourite sights and places to avoid. "But, you should go here," he concluded drawing a circle with his finger around some dots to the north of the island. "I love it there. Nobody goes there. It's beautiful and quiet and you don't have to deal with other people at all. Perfect for people like us. Go there." For a minute, I was taken aback: how did he know that I am 'people like us'? But of course I am a woman setting out to sea, alone, in a kayak. Who else could I be?

As he helped me pack my gear he showed me where a rat, trapped in the storage hold, had damaged the kayak trying to escape. "Don't," he admonished morosely, "leave the cover off for even a minute or they'll get in and ruin everything." So much for thinking I was leaving rats behind in the city.

Occasionally he'd look up from the folding, and stuffing and jamming of packing to say "Canada, hey?" Then, shaking his head in a bewilderment tinged with the blues, he'd add, "Canadian girls are awesome."

Now he sits on the bow, holding the kayak steady for me as I climb in. Once I've pulled the skirt tight around me he hands me the paddle. He removes his camouflage cotton baseball cap revealing a mass of long black loose curls, unusual for this part of the world and which the wind tussles wildly, revealing a two inch wide strip shaved on the left side where six, thick wire stitches have been threaded into his skull.

"You're going to have a great time, Canadian girl," he says. Then, placing his hat on my head, "You're going to need this."

But once he's hopped off the kayak and pushed me out to sea, the doubts begin to clang above the roar of the sea. I dig into the water with my strongest strokes but barely move against the aggressive wind and waves. I am as helpless and static as the madly flapping, motionless eagle. The wind knocks Zack's hat off my head and a wave swallows it whole. I sit for a moment, watching, waiting for it to resurface but it never does.