Staying afloat
Our stimulus check arrived in the mail in early summer, and my husband and I knew it would be prudent to use the money to pay bills, or stow away in our savings account for a rainy day.
But by those early days in June, we were going stir crazy from the shutdown as COVID-19 cases were on the rise. Summer had arrived, and amidst a global pandemic, our upcoming vacation—so carefully planned in pre-COVID days—seemed less and less likely to happen. Using the money to pay bills felt mundane. Padding our savings account felt too … responsible. We were feeling reckless. We needed some adventure.
Adventure arrived in a delivery truck two weeks later: we purchased two kayaks, the shape and color of overly ripe mango slices. Immediately after unboxing them, we laid them side by side in the lush grass of our front lawn, just to see how they would feel. We sat in them, but since we were on dry land, we almost immediately tipped sharply to the side, bringing on a fit of giggles. We must’ve been quite a sight for our neighbors to see!
In a short time, slipping my kayak into the water at nearby forest preserves has become something I need—crave, really—most weekends or, even more indulgent, occasional weeknights when there is time.
How many rivers and streams have I crossed via drab concrete bridges, not even registering the ripply waters below because I’m oblivious in my car, windows closed, stereo on? To actually be in the river, a pond, or a lake … it flips my perspective in a way that feels intensely important right now. During this socially distanced, isolating, and uncertain chapter of our lives, the kayak has become a necessary cradle of happy solitude.
My daily stay-at-home/work-at-home routine is steeped in sameness. Down on the water, I love the musky smell of fish and wet leaves, the way the light on the water is never the same from one minute to the next—especially at sundown, when raccoons and river otters emerge from the shadows to do their nocturnal tasks. I’ve spotted blue herons and majestic egrets gliding to tall branches to feed hungry babies. The kayak feels like an extension of my body, and wandering through the glass-like water gives me a new feeling of inner peace. I’m hooked.
In order to go fishing, my husband fashioned anchors for both kayaks using a length of strong rope attached to a cinder block. While he finds a spot to cast his line into the water, I pull out a book to read. The first time I used the anchor, I wasn’t sure it was working. I was moving, wasn’t I? But no—as I fixed my eye on a tree at the shore, I realized that the anchor was doing its job. I was staying in place. I could safely look down at my pages and not worry about floating off somewhere, out of sight from my gentleman fisher friend.
The weight of that anchor assures that I stay afloat, but keeps me tethered. The way I’m feeling, I’m ready to pull up my anchor and see what’s just around the bend up ahead. Holding the oars firmly in my grip makes me feel like I have a tiny bit of control over something in this world—this muddy, beautiful, confusing, aching, breathtaking world.
