Today's post marks the 400th post since I started this website in 2009. Many things have changed in those 918 days; and in ways this site stands as a reminder of what I've paddled thought and over. There have been many days recorded; and more so my thoughts inbetween each wave and cove transcribed. It also speaks to the wasted moments more to myself. That blank week where I didn't take to the water for no other reason than laziness. Not taking advantage of the life I've been given to the fullest.
Capturing a moment in words or pictures is the easy part. However finding the breaks in weather and the willpower to self propel into the wild have been challenging during these cold winter months. However digging deep I pushed out solo along a very familiar coastline under the threat of a gale.
I decided I would paddle south into the predicted 80km/hr winds; riding it back once it pitched. Shadowing the shoreline grabbing garbage as I went seemed fitting on such a short trip. It's the least I think a kayaker can do with a empty hull. This place gives so much to me; I am obliged to at leas take a little ownership.
The beaches were actually unsullied; a welcomed surprise. I had surmised that spring warmth would expose the refuse disaster along the receding snowbanks. I walked along each beach picking up small bits of waste here and there; as well as some jasper that I was lucky enough to find. Rewards I concluded to myself.
My hair began to toss around on my head; a feeling I'm still getting accustomed to after years of well manicured tank commander hair. With the hair waving now in the wind it's hard not to think about the future and the present; although I do try to remain in the present. Who am I now? I've shed rank structures along with the roles and responsibilities; a schtick I had played for well over a decade.
Launching back into a tiny surf, I headed back with many things to think about.
Gusts pushed my hood forward between random periods of calm. There was no predicting the pattern. Some sustained gusts; others mere light passing waves. Every time a gust remained I smiled at the prospect of large breaking waves to surf back to the take out. It never came.
Loading up in St. Philips in the stillness of a calm spring day I looked around at the gale. Maybe the gale wasn't defined quite right; and maybe I shouldn't look to define myself.