First Paddle
It is my first paddle of the season and I go alone since the water is glass calm. As I follow the shoreline, I look at the waterfront homes and imagine the people who live there. Some are out mowing grass or tossing balls for dogs, but most houses are silent, their picture windows reflecting the sky and water back at me. The sound of an engine grabs my attention and I turn forward to watch a boat leave the boat ramp. I drift, waiting, conscious of staying out of his path.
Once the boat zooms away, I grip my paddle and dig the right side into the water. Pull. My kayak slices satisfyingly through the water. Left side, pull. I go faster. Left, right, left, right…my arms are burning in a way that feels so good, reminding me that I am alive, that my body can propel me where I want to go.
A high-pitched, stuttering cry sounds from the trees and I look up to see a bald eagle perched at the top of a Douglas fir. Down below the eagle, on the rocky beach, a mallard duck pair waddle to the water.
A huge floating log forces me to turn away from shore, so I head out into the bay. Before me spreads the distant Cascade Mountain Range, still topped with snow. Mount Baker towers over the rest, a brilliant white pyramid.
I rest my paddle, tilt my face up to the weak spring sunshine, and close my eyes to imprint the moment in my memory: Salty air touched with the scent of algae drying on the beach. Warm sun on my face and bare arms, cold plastic against my legs. The very slightest of cool breezes. My arms, shoulders, and back burn from my earlier sprint.
I breathe deep. Then, breathe again. This moment, right here, right now, is perfect. Just me and nature, and the wide-open bay.
*From my Salish Sea Collection. Port Susan, WA. May 31, 2021.
