of the water and the sea

From Below the Ice

One blinking, quivering ray of sunlight presses through the clouds layered over the Northeast and it seems as if the world is straining towards this supposed offering of color and warmth. The chlorophyll has gone from the leaves and grass, and as the foliage hibernates, I can see far into the hills. It is not a colorful sight, and I cringe back while I listen to the wind hollowly swinging through the brittle grey tree branches.

Wisps of snow swirl and drop hard: big, heavy flakes that stick together as they hurtle sideways, downwards. When they coat the grey expanses, piling up high, it will be beautiful. It will be beautiful each time it snows for the next four months, as icicles drip from every railing and ice glosses the barren fields. It is the time in between that is trying, when the grey settles in to blanket everything once again, a canopy of clouds that hovers with heavy disdain to the sun.

Somewhere about 1,000 miles south of here, the tide is falling back over sand and stone, relinquishing the tidal zone once again to the sustaining heat of the sun. The days are longer, and still pools of seawater refract light from among the rocks. A scuttling here or there from a hermit crab or a flurry from a seabird distracts from the sound of the waves: ebb, flow, the splash of a fish, industrial silence.

The foliage is still green here, and does not spend half of the year hibernating like its northern counterparts; the plants here have had opportunity all year to grow dense and lush. You will not find wiry shrubs here, and there is no fight for sunlight, only for a secure place among the dunes and shifting sands.

There is no need to rush through a place like this, only to wake up every morning to watch the sunrise, to spend days playing in the shallow waters and paddle boarding in exploration, to spend afternoons dozing on the beach, swaying in the soft fabric of a hammock. It feels natural to spend evenings eating dinner around a fire, adding the cackling spits of heat and catching sap to the swaying background sound of breaking waves. All of this, as a prelude to nights sleeping under the stars, protected from the critters and wind inside my coziest of tents. It is a humble lifestyle, yet one that has always been special to me, a comfort among the fast pace of life.

It seems in the end an easy decision: I will put my sup boards up on my car and my camping gear in the trunk, then I will drive south, meandering until I reach the tropics.

A Determined Disconnect

When I elate my mind to a state of quiet, non-thoughts, I am always rushing forward through the trees, yet the air is soft and quiet, the soil spongy and damp between my toes. The leaves flip over in the wind, catching the sunlight and refracting it at odd angles like sequins under flickering candlelight. The vitamin D in the sunlight tickles my skin and I know my body is absorbing it. Underfoot, I don’t have to look with my eyes to picture the animals, plants, and fungi thriving. They exist in a living, complex blur of greens and browns, but the knowledge that they are there with me is comforting and grounding. We depend on one another as partners in life, no matter if our paths do not appear to cross. It is when my mind is quiet that I feel this appreciation most, and the reminder not to take life for granted always leaves me feeling fresh and rejuvenated.

There is nothing greater than to feel alive, to be aware of the delicate, precise collaboration of molecules that build our overly-complicated selves. Feeling alive can be spontaneous, as in a shock, in the moment of elation, or even in a memory or imagining. To transport oneself to a place where it is only now, where the winding, suffocating worries and thoughts of tomorrow and yesterday can be forgotten, is one of life’s great miracles to me.

I cannot tell you where to find your elation of now, but I will take you with me to a river I dream about, one where I’ve never been, but constructed so beautifully by my imagination that the berries drip with dew and burst their sweetly tart juice onto my tongue, and the air seems to hum with vitality and warmth from the sun. A lazy day, drifting unto no composition other than what lies ahead, no path other than forward with the will of the dense water and ancient rocks.

This was pure Sheng Chi; water gliding in smooth rivulets, like poured glass, multifaceted, yet glossy, over smooth stones, worn from the persistent flow of water. Perhaps these stones had been worn down since the dinosaurs roamed the rocky shores, munching the bright berries that grew among the thorny bushes. The air was dry, yet fresh and warm. Along the edges of the river, the rocky beaches were powdery with beige and copper dust, interspersed with green foliage sporting rainbows of wildflowers, vibrant in stark contrast to the earthy rocks, yet surreptitiously wiry and inauspicious. Sunshine shimmered on the trickling water, warming every surface within reach. I leaned back in my blue Perception kayak, letting the warmth wash over my shoulders. Meanwhile, the underwater rocks made tiny bumps as I floated over them, like watered silk over sun kissed skin.

My kayak drifted downriver, the rocky shores beginning to rise on either side of me, until they were towering walls of rich reds and terra cottas. I was too busy astounding over the gorgeous cliffs to notice the river narrowing until I rounded a turn, and the current picked up my kayak, pushing me toward the far wall before straightening its course. The water became deeper, and darker, as eddies began forming along the shores, little currents trying to go upriver to no avail. These eddies were the river’s way of relieving pressure, letting off some steam. Above, the cliffs were blotched with water in broad patches, revealing deeply vibrant, earthy hues, and black mold marked the paths of small waterfalls a hundred feet above me.

Although I was drifting faster, I glided downriver smoothly, through deep winding turns. I paddled under the draping leaves of trees bold enough to grow on ridges among the cliffs, their drooping branches reaching ineptly for the water below. The wind was strong, tunneling through the canyon and picking up momentum, so a faint rumbling blended into the background for a few minutes before I noticed it. Then it was impossible to ignore: a thunderous rumbling that echoed in my bones, camouflaging even the increasing thrum of my own heartbeat. With the deafening roar getting louder, adrenaline kicked in. I sat up straight and alert, my grip firm on the smooth carbon handle of my paddle. My knuckles turned white as I looked downriver, anticipating the approaching white water.

The river began to drop in elevation, getting steeper as the slick canyon walls began to rise in earnest. The air seemed to carry an electric charge and the water up ahead was pounding over humungous rocks, forming waves and daunting holes as I rushed toward the underwater boulder garden. A few degrees to my left, I saw the deceptively smooth tongue of the river, a swift triangle of water pushed up by the current, amid the froth of the surrounding rapids. Glancing quickly over the chaotic scene ahead, I decided the tongue was my safest course into the rapid. I paddled hard on my right side, water splashing up from the impact of my boat hitting the waves. There was a tug on my kayak, then a stretching, fleeting, non-volatile moment when I first reached the smooth current of the tongue, so I wiggled my toes and fingertips to center myself. Then I took a deep breath of precious air and was swallowed by the mighty, raving river.

I was immediately soaked, the water crashing down from all sides. My kayak dropped down between waves and I could see only the dark, swirling brew around me. I inhaled the musky, sweet smell of the water and my stomach leapt as I emerged on top of the next surge. For a microsecond, I got another quick read of the river ahead of me, before I was swallowed up again. Ahead, a boulder shot up toward the surface, a large hump covered in rushing black water. The currents fought each other to get past, and failing, formed a raging hole. The angry water was crushing in on itself, sucking itself down into the murky depths before spitting out what was left in a huge surge of waves.

There was no time to dodge; I had to go straight into the monster’s mouth. My arms burned as I paddled with all my strength, my strokes deep as I built momentum, not knowing if it would be enough. I relished the burn in my muscles and the cold shock of the water on my skin.

Time stood still, yet the chaos began instantly, and I was battered in the deafening darkness by hissing waves. I couldn’t tell which way was up in the roiling brew of foaming blackness and cutting brackishness of stray branches and debris amid the serpentine currents. All I knew was the soul-sucking cold, and the crushing weight of volatile water. I couldn’t feel my fingers through the overwhelming adrenaline and the snarling currents engulfed my paddle, ripping it from my frigid grip. I was at the mad river’s mercy and my lungs burned. I focused on not breathing in icy water.

Then, suddenly, there was shimmering sunlight. I had been spontaneously spat out of the hole, and found myself safe. I gulped in the fragrant air, greedily, somewhat frantic. It smelled of pine trees and sunshine. The river ahead was widening, revealing smooth rocky shores on either side. My paddle bobbed against a trunk of old, weathered driftwood, and I easily scooped it up as I passed. The sky was a bright, opaque blue, and there were two hawks circling the canyon. I was exhausted, dripping water and mud, and I had never been so happy.

In my dream, I breathed deep, and tasted the air with appreciation. I wiggled my fingers and toes, just to feel them there, a part of me. I constantly seek this elation of energy. This is why I roam the forests and lay in fields of tall, rustling grass. This is why I will forgo the comfort of my bed, with too many pillows to justify and down comforters stacked high, for the fragrant soil under the stars, the gurgling of a nearby steam, and a breeze unobstructed.

Growing into Me

I grew up in eastern New York, amidst 800+ acres of dense, hearty forest. During the winter when the oaks, sugar maples, and tulip trees are bare, there is a clear view to a glacial lake down the hill through the western windows. I grew up swimming in this lake, later canoeing, and when I turned twelve, I got my first kayak, a blue 9’ Perception Swifty from Eastern Mountain Sports in Danbury, CT. To me, this brought on what has become a persevering passion for paddling.

As a young person, I took every opportunity to kayak, canoe, whitewater raft, and swim. This included everything from rafting the Delaware River with my Girl scout troop to a week-long paddling expedition through the Marble Canyons of Utah’s Green River during summer camp.

I didn’t buy my first paddle board until 2014, ten years after the sport was introduced. Being an 11’6 BicSport, 34” wide with a planeing hull, my first board was extremely stable and I could practice yoga flows without too much difficulty. I promptly used it five or six times before the winter, then several times the next summer. Running was a huge part of my life at this time, sequestering all of my attention, and I wasn’t getting out onto the water very often.

That March, I brought my lightly used BicSport 3,450 miles west to Portland, OR, and left it in storage until two years later when I put it back up on my car to return east to NY. At this point, having driven my board quite pointlessly through Utah and Colorado’s canyonlands, across the flats of Nevada and Iowa, and over the saw-toothed mountain-hills of Appalachia, I stored it for another long winter in NY.

Not a strong start, and I never would have imagined that SUP boarding would become not only a passion, but admittedly, an obsession.

If I think for an instant back to this spring, I recollect immediately the pure joy in my face as I turned it up to the sun and for the first time in months, felt it actually warm my skin. The early wildflowers were pushing up through the soil, animals were beginning to venture out of their hideaways, and in an attempt to feel a more acute connection to the budding nature around me, I put on a swim suit and spent several lazy, blissful hours drifting around the lake on my SUP.

While I was generally fit, I was thin and pale. My muscles were for the most part unpracticed and undefined after the enduring New York winter. I had snowshoed and skied, sure, winter camped even, but these are sports I’ve never done consistently. Many days I’d spend the afternoon’s peak running on frozen trails, but while I absolutely do have a runner’s mentality, it’s always worn my body down. Often, mentality aside, I’d get strung up from pepping myself into starting an activity that would demand an hour or two of vigorous focus just to persevere.

On the lake, I got the connection I was looking for, and I began to paddle several times a week, then every day, and as I became adjusted, up to twelve times a week. I paddled not only on flat water, but the swelling water of Long Island Sound, brackish river outlets, wake-filled boat channels, and rushing tidal creeks. While my initial focus was on leisure and balance, I soon began running myself through drills to improve mobility and speed, moving with weight on the paddle and engaging my shoulders and back as I quickly transferred it between hands. I began struggling to maintain my weight at this point, and ultimately added over 1,000 daily calories to my diet, many of those from ketogenic foods for their high fat and protein content. Now acclimating more smoothly, I began to experiment with footing, standing farther back on the board, engaging my legs and feet to distribute my balance just so. I found I could drop the tail all the way into the lakebed without falling, and pivot on a blink. My board began to move as my extension, and we learned to communicate.

At this point, I was riding every board I could get my hands on, and honing in on my style and expectations. I bought a very different SUP, the 8’6 Naish Hokua GTW. At 18.75” wide and only 105 liters, the Hokua is designed for surfing and is not known for its stability. However, as a very lightweight and somewhat experienced rider, this board talks to me in a way no higher volume board has. It is extremely responsive: if I move my foot back more than 10-12” the whole tail drops, but it is vocal too. Before the rocker responds, there’s this feeling of low gear, and though it is hard to explain, it is a stable place in which I can adjust. This is the single to double concave shape underneath (this makes the board pick up speed and stability on a wave by spreading the passing water out under the widest part of the board).

I sold my Bic Sport AceTec, and replaced it with a 10’ by 32” Tom Carroll Outer Reef Paddle Surf. With a pointed nose to cut the water rather than slapping against its surface, this board picks up speed when it tracks and lets me throw it around into maneuvers without much effort.

My style on the water is inspired by kayak rodeos, sandy-bottomed beaches, and boat wakes. It is reminiscent of island camping but also cutting through severe Atlantic chop. Swift tidal creeks spur me on heedlessly and I’ve been testing the waters on river paddling. I chase waves and am learning to catch them. When I sleep, I sometimes wake myself abruptly because in my dreams, I am on my board and about to fall off. I carry with me always the residual feel of rolling swells no matter if I’m firmly landlocked.

Some days, I drift with the breeze, stretched out under the sun in a SUP yoga flow. I occasionally hone my attention on a specific muscle group and paddle for fitness. Other times, I paddle to forget: within minutes of hopping onto a SUP board, regardless of my daily baggage, my laughter bubbles over at the pure joy of it. I release tension, anxiety, and stress through the smooth motions of my paddle; the dip, sweep, drag, release and reposition becoming hypnotic, as I work methodically through my troubles. This is where I go to reset.