Land-Lubber vs Kayak

Sometimes it takes a little time and distance before I can write dispassionately about significant emotional events.  Such is the case right now.

Pa and I and the chilluns spent Thanksgiving in south Florida with relatives.  In case this is news to you, Pa hasn’t always lived on the prairie.  He hails from seafaring Florida stock, and has repeatedly attempted to kill me with watercraft.  Though this post is likewise about a near death experience, Pa is not wholly responsible.  Much to my dismay, my lucky fin is partly to blame.

Over the river and through the woods is the wimpy version of our bi-annual trek to tropical climes.  The overstuffed wagon can practically drive itself.  We routinely sojourn at all the same rest stops (which says something about the predictability of our liquid consumption), restaurants, hotels and gas stations.  We know if Pedro has put up a new sign to advertise South of the Border.  In this most recent trip, we learned that South of the Border has an actual spa.  I’d advise against testing the veracity of that claim.

Since our previous trip to Florida, the relatives procured a pair of kayaks.  The chilluns could not wait to try out said kayaks, and in fact were water-bound within 15 minutes of our arrival. 

I love the fact that the chilluns love the water.  Though a lifelong land-lubber, I have always been drawn to the peaceful rhythm of the ocean.  I don’t need to touch the ocean with any part of my person, but it is quite delightful to be ashore.

Shortly after the chilluns’ maiden kayaking voyage, Pa had his turn.  The chilluns and Pa all raved about the experience, and so encouraged me to become a kayaker.  Reality is that they all mercilessly heckled me until I agreed to drive-crew-steer-captain the kayak. 

Hard to believe, but true, I had already decided to give kayaking a try.  Our Florida locale is quiet water, just a simple dock moored in an imperceptibly moving watery bayou.  That, and people who can barely propel themselves on land routinely paddle softly past the in-laws’ home.

Getting into a kayak some four feet below the level of the dock without a ladder was a challenge, but Pa helped (while uttering some less than charitable expressions about my gracefulness).  With paddling skills honed from a recent parent-kid triathlon, I was soon moving forward. 

Twist, dunk, pull; twist, dunk, pull.  What could be more simple?

Pa advised me not to kayak alone (not entirely sure what THAT was about), so I dutifully followed the son towards a nearby sandbar.  Nearby is a relative term; in kayaking-distance it took about 15 minutes, or at least 5000 paddle strokes, but who’s counting?

Padding proudly past the verdant gardens and homesteads of fellow kayakers, my heart swelled with pride.  I was now one of the boat-people.  With every stroke and pull of the paddles, with every splash of sea water on my bottom, I was one with the water.

The kayaking excursion went ~ well, swimmingly ~ until the son exited the bayou into the churning intercoastal waterway.

The intercoastal is a series of bodies of water that are practically open ocean, water between barrier islands (such as the one where Pa grew up) and the mainland.  Jet skiers, power boats and touristy cruise ships zipped by in immediate proximity to the purposeful paddling of my son.

Bravely facing the danger ahead, I did exactly what any good pioneer would do:  I made the executive decision that my kayaking fanny needed to head back to land.

Go ahead, call me a chicken.  So I don’t love swimming in seawater; there’s nothing wrong with that! 

Turning my watercraft steadily 180 degrees, I heard faint shouts from my son.  I ignored them. 

Mere moments later, I had masterfully (okay, a little less than that) turned my kayak around.  Paddling back down my safe little bayou-bubble, I agreed with myself that this was the most sane course of action.  No need to get too crazy with the first kayaking expedition.  No need to kayak into white water or even water with a hint of chop.

Nearing the family dock, I summoned Pa with my lovely lilting voice.  (Pa does a heartless mocking impression of my voice, something akin to a screeching chicken.  The things I endure.).  Pa arrived, chided me for deserting the son, and instructed me how to decamp from the kayak. 

On an unstable object on actual moving water. Where there’s no ladder.  Four feet below the dock.

I’m not sure how any human is supposed to actually do this, much less one who has just become a true ‘boat person’, but this was my task. 

You can guess the rest.

I really became one with the water.

Blame it on Pa (who to his credit was able to retrieve me from the water in spite of his obvious amusement with the situation), blame it on kayaking inexperience, blame it on my lucky fin.  I’m clearly imbalanced as it is, with this short right leg that has caused multiple years of pain and suffering, and required a small army of doctors, treatments and physical therapy.  But stop your mockery right there!  ‘Imbalanced’ does not apply to my mind.

Given the way I over-think most things, it didn’t take too long to start looking for a lesson in this traumatic experience.  Was my ‘unexpected bath’ merely a reminder of my lack of physical grace?  Did my refusal to kayak mean that I really do lack courage?  Even if Pa and the son thought it wimpy, wouldn’t my life insurance agent be happy with my kayaking decision?

I’m in an intense season of life.  It’s not just Thanksgiving-Christmas-one kid birthday-one Pa birthday-our wedding anniversary season, it’s crazy get Northfield Cumberland Home open season too.  And it’s the end of the year, a time when this big head tends to think too much about goals accomplished and goals yet to attain.

My experience ‘in the drink’ so to speak reminds me of not just one, but the sum of my life’s spiritual lessons.  When I avoid the turbulence long enough, eventually I get thrown right smack into the middle of it, oftentimes not of my own choosing.  I can’t forever avoid getting wet or messy.  Much as I want my life, my person, my house (which is still not 100% ‘back’ since we finished the floors) to be perfectly ordered, that seems not to be God’s preferred means to accomplishing His will.  I have my lucky fin and quite a few other weaknesses that throw me off balance, rocking my tidy little world. 

Being in ministry is to at once live in the middle of turbulent white water chop, while at the same time, experience superseding peace (most days anyway).  In some ways there’s more inner calm when there’s more turbulence.  The turbulence paradoxically proves that I’m on the right track, for I’m living what Christ promised real believers. 

I can laugh about the kayaking mishap now; I’m sure it was hilarious to watch.  God frequently proves to me that He has quite the sense of humor.  So go ahead, join Pa and the chilluns ~ and me ~ and apparently the Lord Almighty ~ in chuckling over my kayaking finesse.  Even though I don’t always enjoy rough waters, and I really hate being cold AND wet, somehow this is exactly where He wants me. 

Now, can anyone tell me where to find a good deal on a dock ladder?