Seasick, Part 1

I’ve been anticipating the USF English Department’s kayak trip for months. I imagine my fellow instructors and I elegantly slicing our oars through shimmering Tierra Verde waters…what could be a better way to spend a Sunday afternoon? Zoning in front of another America’s Next Top Model marathon, you say? Ok, that’s a close second. I’ll be zening in a kayak, sun on my face, seaspray misting the air, discussing good books and philosophy with like-minded souls, thank you very much.

The plan is to kayak out a few miles off the St. Pete coast to Shell Island. I’ve even offered to teach the group a mini yoga session once we hit the beach. Ah, how glorious the day will be. So what if I stayed up until 5am that morning drinking red wine from the bottle and chainsmoking Marlboro’s on my balcony with a bunch of boys I barely know? We were playing an intense game of Saved by the Bell trivia. But, being the pinnacle of discipline that I am, I ushered the lovely gents out at the stroke of 5 to rest up. Gotta be centered for a venture into the blue wild.

The kayaks are lined up on the sand, translucent water lapping at the sterns (or maybe it’s the bows…I’m not too keen on nautical jargon). Pure energy pulses through every cell of my body, carried in by the topaz breeze. We suit up in life vests (the guides use some fancy name for it, which I should probably know, like I should also know the stern or the bow or whatever) and these goofy plastic skirts that Velcro around our waists and hook around the rim of the kayak’s cockpit. Being that it is January and the water a bit chilly, these skirts are supposed to keep waves from crashing into our boats. Off we go.

Sun glints off the water’s surface. Mangroves line the perimeter of the beach, green blooms of inlets and islands we paddle past. It’s wonderful out here, breathing deeply, meditating as I coast over the Gulf of Mexico. My mantra is om shanti. To Buddhists and yogis, Om represents the audible representation of the vibration that struck the world into being (more on this later), and shanti is Sanskrit for peace. When combined, I like to think they mean peace for all beings on the earth, and for the earth itself. If you don’t get down with meditating (though you should really consider it, all the cool kids are doing it these days) you can just understand that I am wholly, utterly relaxed and at peace in this moment. The inner and outer worlds have struck a balance. Ah. Sweet.

Now would be a good time for a confession. Two, actually. The first being that I’ve only kayaked three times my whole life, the last two in double kayaks, with muscley boys doing most of the grunt work. The first time was during a triathalon at karate camp when I was 16. It was a single kayak, and it wasn’t pretty. I flubbed around in the middle of the murky lake, not understanding the physics of paddling straight. I circled around like a fish with one fin as my competitors gracefully soared to the other shore and completed the race. It got so desperate some onlookers had to slosh into the dark water and pull me out. Needless to say, I came in last. Ten minutes behind everyone else. What a fond memory, that is.

Ok, confession number two, which sounds even worse after my triathalon tragedy. Even though I’m a total novice at kayaking, I still expect to be great at it. Worse than that, I expect to be better than my fellow ’yakers. How enormously egotistical is that? I’m the youngest of the crew, and I’m a yoga instructor, for chrissake. I should be like a dolphin out there. If dolphins could kayak.

So it completely throws me off center, literally and figuratively, when the wind picks up. But not your average, easy breezy refreshing type of wind. More like a big old GO FUCK YOURSELF from Mother Nature herself.

The fierce currents unleash punishing waves and push me away from the rest of the gang. I slam on the left foot pedal in my kayak to steer the rudder and jab at the relentless water. My breath quickens. Every second wasted is another second pushed farther out. The airstream won’t let up. I’ve skidded completely off course, and now slam on the right foot pedal and outrigger the left side like a spastic hyena. But my pathetic piloting skills only end me up zigzagging and getting hurled upstream. I’m expending precious energy—my shoulders and arms are on fire right now—because I don’t know how to properly steer this damn floating banana. I have a flashback of the karate camp fiasco at 16.

One of the group leaders paddles over and around me, literally herding me in the right direction. I’m like the lame sheep in the pen who can’t figure how to get out and graze. Even worse, the poor guy has to do this three times with me because every time I just get blown the opposite way by unruly waves. I try shouting apologies to him and cracking bad jokes over the heavy winds, but he’s not amused. Frustrated, he paddles off quickly and adeptly, yelling something about a rope.

Alone now, I try to reason with nature.

I can do this, I am not afraid of you, I tell the water. It laughs in my face, sending a shocking cold spray in my cockpit, drenching me. The weird Velcro skirt I’m wearing caves in instantly under the pressure. So much for that.

I will master you, I am strong! I proclaim, panting. A huge wave rocks my kayak. I wobble but steady before I flip.

GGGGRRAAAAHHHH! I grunt-scream as I dig my oar deeper, getting nowhere.

I’m launched into a patch of mangroves. The branches crunch and scrape against the kayak’s stern/bow. My body in the cockpit is next. I’m literally wedged inside the mangrove. I have to crane my neck back awkwardly to avoid a branch in the eye. Thick leaves dangle in front of my face. The waves still keep coming, shoving me deeper and deeper into the upgrowth. I open my mouth and bite down on a cold gray branch, my teeth gnashing against the brittle bark. Just for fun.

So much for a zenful day on the crystal blue gulf.

to be continued.....