Time and Tide

It seemed that as the water receded, so too did my angst.

 

I needed an excuse to paddle, to get out in my kayak in the center of the bay and just float. As the tide began to move out I knew that I would have to be quick about it. Gathering my gear, getting into the shorty one size too small, PFD over a shoulder, grabbing the yak, paddle in the other hand and humping it down to the inlet would find me chasing the last of the ebbing current. Why is it in these moments the gremlins are out, knocking things about, slowing me down, damaging my calm? Always keeping my rescue gear in the boat saves me time and frustration of not leaving it mindlessly behind, but everything else seems a deliberate effort because I am in a hurry. Once on the waters edge, I set the 17 footer down into the salty marsh, climb in with the grace of a landed hippopotamus, squinch into the cockpit, do the shimmy into the seat, and set my feet against the pegs. Its calm, no spray skirt today, besides, at my age I have no business rolling. A little sculling pulls the boat away from the shore, and I am underway.

 

It is incredible how efficient long pulling strokes in a sea kayak carve the stress and agita out of me. I enter my practiced form, borne of long years of paddling, a half twist at the hip, dipping forward clean and deep, driving back gently and smoothly, lifting with a twist and moving now to the other side. Again and again, the smooth patterned motion takes over my conscious, and I forget, why I am here, what I was worried about, what else I should be doing. I just am.

 

The sun is setting as I come out of the small fingerlet, the moon rising in the east over the end of the world outside the bay. The breeze is gentle, the tide carries me effortlessly. The rec boats with their bikinied babes and manly men at the helm, beer in hand, doing 20 knots in the no-wake zone don't bother me, as I drift lazily over the steep series of waves that spill off their hulls. In half an hour I am drifting in the center of the bay. Its silent here, warm. I can see nothing forever towards the rising moon. I switch on my nav light over my right shoulder, open the Chem-Lume on my chest, and I rest. I can see the bridge to Ocean City to my south, the piers of Somers Point behind me, and if I believe, I can see the lights of the casinos in Atlantic City. The moonlight fills the shadows, and the contrasting shore takes on a new form, the soft rollers lulling me a bye. A cigar, I think, and enjoy it watching moonrise and sun set. After a short lifetime I toss the last dreg of my Hemingway into the sea, and paddle through the smaller waterways off the inlet, watching the sea birds, seeing fish jump near the weeds. In, around, back out to the bay.

 

Its getting dark now, and the tide has ebbed. Work tomorrow, and I am convinced the cats miss me, so I turn the boat leeward towards home. I have renewed, if only for the moment, but its all I needed. I am the long, smooth, clean rhythm. The shore comes upon me, scull in, and once again lock myself back onto the muddy shore. The weight of being me slowly sets down on me again. But I have strength now, of knowing tomorrow, we paddle again.

 

 

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