I own a kayak but wouldn’t call myself a kayaker. Even the term novice doesn’t apply but that doesn’t stop me from taking my kayak on an occasional Sunday morning spin.
Skies are blue on this early fall day, and the surface of Devil Track Lake calm. The garden needs work, but I tell myself it might be the last nice day to get out on the lake.
After Dick helps carry the kayak to water, I step in, wave a clumsy bon-voyage and push from the dock, trying to use the rudder correctly. After an unintended swoosh towards shore, I get the hang of it and point the bow towards the west.
My goal is a large island, lying a quarter of a mile away that has always piqued my curiosity.
This thing really shoots across the water I tell myself as my kayak zips past neighbor’s places. Although I stay fairly close to shore, the view from out here is lovely.
The first leg of the journey passes quickly. I enjoy the green trees and quiet water. Within a few minutes I leave the relative safety of close shoreline and steer towards the middle of the lake, something that must be done if I want to circle the island.
I feel a tiny zap of apprehension but figure I’m wearing a life jacket so continue moving out to the big water. Weird thoughts cross my mind, now that I can’t see home. Where is that large rock off the point? Are there other rocks just under the lake’s surface? I steer carefully and soon am closer to shore.
Eventually I reach the island, close enough to see the forested shore. Nothing exciting, just the same trees and underbrush as at my house. Still, it’s lovely too.
A small flock of ducks fly overhead. Five of them. My kayaking fantasy is to see critters; maybe an otter swimming alongside me or a large fish breaking the surface before my eyes.
I see only the five ducks but paddle along contentedly until I steer around the island shoreline that faces the main part of the lake, the last leg of my journey.
Here a crosswind suddenly pops up, forcing the kayak north. I don’t like this. Home is in the other direction. I kick it up a notch, moving the paddle faster and deeper, concentrating on getting home, but it takes a long time.
I keep up my serious paddling for what seems hours. Finally I spot the flag hanging from a neighbor’s dock. The wind is still a bit pesky, but I feel a burst of energy now that I see familiar territory and move along quickly.
As I make my final landing, I wave jauntily to a neighbor. Dick walks down the hill to greet me, and I quietly slow down my labored breathing. “That was great.” I tell him, proud of my accomplishment.
I’ll take other kayak excursions but from now on, I might just keep home in sight.
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