So much for a zenful day on the crystal blue gulf.
Luckily, two other kayakers get stranded near me, lodged into strips of shrubbery. At least I’m not alone. Apparently our boss has been blown so off course the leader had to go fetch him. But, much to my fragile ego’s dismay, one of the young girls in the group is still paddling in the open water. In control. As if it were just another day at the fucking beach. She glides by coolly, telling me and the other stuck ducks we’ll have to wait here until the wind dies down to move. I slam my oar into the bright green thicket and use every iota of power to shove off the mangrove and into the gulf.
We clumsily paddle downwind into a nearby alcove, protected from the currents by a wall of thick foliage.
“There’s no way we’ll make it to Shell Island with the weather like this,” the leader says, climbing out of his kayak and standing in the knee-high water. “We’ll just have to have lunch here.” The leaders pull an assortment of food bags and a metal folding table from the storage compartments of their kayaks. There’s no beach to park on, so we dig the metal poles into the soft sand underwater and huddle around the table in the lagoon. The water is cold against my legs but it feels good to stand after being in the cramped cockpit.
We munch on pita bread, lemon hummus and oranges. I have to pee. Peeing is impossible. There are eight folks around, and I’m too embarrassed to wade off into a nearby corner, squat into the chilly surf and relieve myself.
But my bladder is the least of my worries. Just how in the hell am I going to get home? I have to climb back in that godforsaken plastic boat and face the furious gulf again? Excuse me?
The leaders explain our new route to return to the launch point.
“Can we just call the coast guard?” I ask, half joking, half dead serious. But no. I must do this. I love the outdoors, don’t I? I’m a hippie chick, a veritable wilderness woman, I should be able to handle this. Why can’t I handle this? For all my talk of wanting adventure and the wild core of nature, I’m pretty disappointed in my meager performance.
Reluctantly I suit back up and head off into the cruel waves. My arms feel like limp linguini. My feet are numb. My sandy, tangled mess of hair flings into my face like a defeated flag. Let’s do this. Deep breath in, deep breath out. I am a zen master. I am one with this water. I can do this.
Slam. Wave after wave knocks me farther away, turning my stern/bow the opposite way I need to go. I’m violently pawing at the air with my oar, thrashing against the elements. My boss and I lag behind the rest of the group. My boss’ shoulder is injured badly, and he’s in the lightest kayak. Two very good excuses. My shoulders are dandy, and my kayak is a perfectly average weight. The trip leader hangs back with us, trying to talk us through. It ain’t working.
There are mansions dotting the landscape: giant, ostentatious, MTV-Cribs style abodes on the waterfront.
“Why don’t we paddle over to that house, shore up and the others can pick us up from the road?” my boss yells over the windstorm.
“I’d rather not if we can avoid it. It’s trespassing,” the leader yells back.
I remain quiet in my wobbling boat, every single muscle clenched to avoid flipping. I’m even squeezing my eyeballs.
“I don’t think they’re home,” my boss yells and begins to paddle over. The leader shakes his head and paddles after him. I follow clumsily. Minutes later, my kayak slams into the dock. I’m grateful to be out, but frustrated that I couldn’t even finish the route. The peaceful kayak trip has turned into an ego trip. Or, hopefully, an ego lesson.
We drag the unyielding boats to the side of the road. Sprawling mansions flank us on both sides. We’re marooned on an ultra modern home with glass rooms jutting out of the third story and a red rooftop patio. Thankfully my boss was right; they don’t seem to be home. I doubt these rich folks would be too happy to find three water-logged, sand-whipped kayakers traipsing around their fancy backyard.
The leader treks down the road to meet the others at the launch site. We don’t know how far that is, maybe a few miles, and my boss and I hang back on the side of the road to watch the kayaks.
He digs through his kayak’s storage bin (I’m sure there’s a nautical term for this too—a hull?— of course I don’t know). He pulls out his beach towel and flaps it down on the front lawn of a mansion across the street. He groans and lies on his back, saying “I’m so sore! But, wow, this is a nice neighborhood, huh?”
I cautiously sit on the curb of this multi-million dollar neighborhood, worried some snobby homeowner walking her poodle will shoo us away, send us back into the perilous gulf.
An hour and a half later, the van collects us, soggy and exhausted. Still better than not going kayaking, though.
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