I struck out on the no-wake branch of Lake Ray Hubbard, pushing my new touring kayak, Sofie, out of ankle-deep mud into a 3.8-knot breeze that nudged us sideways. I pushed the craft forward and began a northward trek to a creek I wanted to explore further. I passed under Route 66 and into the smaller cove leading to the creek. A brief “test paddle” in different directions told me that trying to return to my launch spot after a long trip would likely be exhausting; especially when going back under the R66 bridge, where the breeze was funneled into a significant wind. We pushed with some effort back into the southern cove. With the breeze at 3.5 knots now, I used the opportunity to challenge myself on small chop, traversing much of this larger section of this branch of Lake Ray Hubbard and getting comfortable with how Sofie behaves in light wind.
History of a Self-Care Gift
In my time in Kentucky last summer, the one thing I thought might give me a modicum of relief from the high anxiety of the dark, shrouded valley was to be on the slow, poplar fluff- and pollen-covered river in a kayak or canoe, paddling in a leisurely fashion and perhaps getting better views of the Pileated Woodpecker that frequented the opposite shore. Out more in the open, I reasoned, I might feel less claustrophobic.
I watched young ones in simple sit-in and sit-on-top kayaks paddle up and down the river, splash each other, and race on utterly smooth water.
I’d long watched a gentleman on social media paddle his canoe on Texas creeks and rivers in a manner that added to my sense that this would, indeed, be a healing experience.
Over the weeks after leaving Kentucky, as I made my way back to Texas through Ohio, Tennessee, Missouri, and Arkansas, I saw more travelers with both hard-shell and inflatable craft. One couple, just a few years older than I, dragged their touring kayaks down to the water’s edge in Tennessee and enjoyed the clear and cool lake I swam in after decades of being relegated to supervised saltwater swimming only. I admitted to the husband and wife that I was envious of their watercraft.
No matter how I looked at Betty and Blanche, I could not figure out a way to carry such a craft. Even an inflatable kayak or paddleboard would not have fit within the space I had (i.e., none). I’d purchased a folding tonneau such that most truck ladder racks wouldn’t work. A roof rack seemed unworkable for a single, 5’4” woman of a certain age. I abandoned the dream.
New Scenery
“Stuck” in the DFW metroplex for who knows how long, and stewing in deep depression that I can speak to few about in any detail, I noticed, again, the many kayakers around me. And still, I regularly saw my social media acquaintance and his canoe and that slow, peaceful glide.
I began the hunt. I looked at everything: hard-shell, folding, inflatable, assemble-at-shore, even handmade skin-on-frame. I joined a local Facebook group and started asking questions.
TL;DR, I learned of a workable ladder rack, chose my craft, and took the plunge (so to speak).
Revelation
I took kayaking lessons because, despite my independent streak, I know my limits. The first moment I pushed off from shore in the first class, tears came. They still do at some point of every paddle. I’m sure, eventually, this will pass. Maybe.
In part, those tears are brewed in the belief that I should be sharing this beauty and joy; if not with a partner, at least with a family member.
My ex-husband and I both wanted kayaks when we were married. We had different visions of what that meant but I was not hard-over on my vision. We both wanted better fishing capabilities at the time. He pored over YouTube videos for weeks before, for whatever reason, he abandoned the idea. Maybe he thought I would make it unpleasant because I had expressed a desire to have separate kayaks and to go into the marshes. I don’t know; we no longer talked much about the times he decided I failed him as a partner. We almost never actually communicated but instead talked around each other.
Now, every time I experience Nature’s beauty and even her fickleness, I find myself wishing that I could share those moments. It’s wonderful to be alone and find peace in nature. However, the last time I recall truly soaking in something so profoundly with a loved one, was when my daughter and I stood hip-deep in the Gulf of Mexico (2019?) and stared for miles across the waves. I don’t recall ever experiencing Nature that deeply with another human being nor have I since.
Healing Waters?
I can’t credit kayaking with healing me. I would say, however, the activity is representative of the entire and ongoing process I have undertaken since November of 2021 when I left Surfside and began my travels. The effort has been beautiful, sometimes bland, and often brutal. I have felt like I am forging ahead only to be pushed back and sideways by the vagaries of grief and memory.
I have recently begun to feel like, oof, maybe I should be more open. Maybe when I meet a man who is kind and attractive, who loves what I love, and who might be kind to me, I shouldn’t automatically assume I am unlovable and run like a scared rabbit.
Maybe.
While that doesn’t sound like much in the way of healing, given my 1.5 years of being unreceptive to new, friendly faces, the thought that I might possibly enjoy being in the same space with a man and not have too many expectations of either of us is, well, progress. The fact that I do not think of the pain of my former life, at all, while I paddle those waters, is a huge victory.
I paddle. I look for birds and snakes. I breathe deeply. I hope.
Back to Shore
After some time in the southern section of the cove, I decided to head back to the windy bridge for the fun of it. Within moments, the wind shifted. Though it was no longer as strong, I was forced to paddle against it again. Had I stuck with my original plan, I’d have been able to make a trip up the creek and back with minimal effort; wind behind me both ways. I had to laugh at myself for not realizing, despite over 50 years of experience with Texas fronts, that the post-front winds would shift so quickly.
I played around in the northern cove for a while, took photos, and paddled comfortably back to shore.
After a rest, I loaded Sofie and drove home, but couldn’t shake my conflicting emotions of joy at having been on the water and mild melancholy for not having a loving and supportive partner or family member with whom to share it.
This is what healing looks like metaphorically: Paddling hopefully—against the wind, both ways.
