(above: calm cove near Miller Rd, Lake Ray Hubbard in North Texas, October 2023, kayak view)
I spent ten months in the Dallas-Fort Worth area in the hopes of resolving some personal issues and determining where I might want to live semi-permanently. While there, I’d finally purchased the kayak (Sofie) I’d been dreaming about since my isolated and anxious time in Kentucky.
I hadn’t been out in Sofie in almost two weeks. The weather had been beautiful, but I’d tried to focus on learning new software and there had been several days of high winds. Rain had done little to ease the low water levels.
I opted for a put-in where I was certain the water was deep enough to paddle even if the view was rather bland at times.
I have gradually come to enjoy the process of loading and unloading Sofie from Betty’s (my Chevy Colorado) ladder rack which I had installed solely for transporting Sofie. Much like the process of hitching and unhitching Betty and Blanche, this effort can be meditative, provided I am not feeling rushed to meet other paddlers.
At the put-in on a sheltered cove (Let’s call it Miller Cove for lack of an official designation) off Lake Ray Hubbard, I heaved the kayak off the rack and visited briefly with a yellow Labrador retriever named Bug. I then dragged the boat and gear down to the rocky launch area.
With Sofie rocking slightly, her bow free of the rocks, I climbed into her cockpit and pushed off into a light evening breeze.
At the start of the 2.8-mile trip, I paddled under abandoned train tracks then north to the Hwy 66 bridge. There, I crouched briefly to listen to a flock of blackbirds (grackles for the most part) chatter, whoop, and whistle. Not wishing to disrupt their communion, I backed out, paddling gently under several trees in which a few more birds talked to me and eyed me with something between curiosity and disdain, then I completed my circuit of this larger part of the cove to head back to the abandoned tracks.
Sun still just above the trees, I continued across Miller Cove and slid under the bridge on the west end, still well away from the main body of the lake. I realized, as I came out of the bridge shelter seconds later, that the wind had died; not even a cool fall whisper touched the water. My paddle slashed left then right; the splashes almost obscene on such a polished liquid mirror.
Near the opposite end of the bridge, in a small, shallow inlet, a fellow kayaker fished. A few yards from him, several young men stood on the bank in the bridge shadows, casting their bait near the bridge piers.
I stroked a few yards farther west, some fifteen feet from the limestone shore, then paddled straight out and made a gentle turn back to face the bridge to decide where to go from there. I allowed my craft to settle with a soft stop, rocking ever so slightly on gentle ripples.
Determinism with a Splash
It took me a few seconds to realize, looking back whence I’d come, that waves from my slow, careful paddling had struck shore, reflected, and were spreading across the lake toward the fishermen. As these waves superimposed with the ripples from my strokes made after passing under the bridge, the wave motion became chaotic and widespread.
Such a disturbance wouldn’t disrupt fishing; at most there would be a slight susurration on shore and the other kayaker would bob lightly as he reeled in his bait. Still, the idea that such a careful motion of mine spread so far and so quickly while the amplitude fell and wavelength grew ever so gradually, did not escape me as metaphorical.
In this woman’s mind, so steeped in grief and strain of late, the sensation was startling and even a bit disquieting.
I came to the water to find relief from, well, everything—I am privileged in that way. However, to be reminded in that moment, that nothing happens without either chaotic or widespread effect is disquieting.
Devastating genocides across the ocean; poverty and habitat loss all over the world; the seeming destruction of compassion and individual freedoms in our own country; personal concerns regarding finances, love, family disconnection, and losses; all these lead me to dark moments.
But I know the ripples people and their “splashes” create; bad or good.
Splash! A loved one says something deliberately cruel. Ripples: hurt, rage, despair; then acceptance that I can only keep working on me and let them sort out their issues, while I muster hope for healing for us both.
Splash! I too say something hurtful. Ripples: more obvious disgust and disapproval aimed at me and still more disconnection.
Splash! A friend reaches out to show care and concern. Ripples: comfort that there are still people on this earth who will support me and peace in knowing they believe I am worthy of such.
Splash! My little gift of a few dollars that I may need in six months but, for now, given to someone who otherwise couldn’t afford to buy food & toiletries today. Ripples: a few days reprieve for them and the knowledge that they too have someone who supports them.
Splash! Someone reminds me that I seemed happy before I began digging into all this horrifying (but still, I believe necessary) understanding of my history. Ripples: I recognize fully that I don’t want to go back to being her: the woman who cleaned beaches for pay that barely covered the damage to her vehicle from the salt air; the woman willing to have loveless (if entertaining) encounters with men just to make up for thirty years of oppression; the woman who fell stupidly in love with someone, yet again, who would never love her properly in return. Her outward “happiness” was solely based on trying to hide from her pain and to protect herself (or attempt to) from more pain.
Most days of 2023 in the DFW area, I looked for the smallest reason to keep going and made minuscule splashes for myself:
- The dog asked to be walked and I am the one who should do that.
- I put gas in my truck, so I might as well use it.
- I washed my bedding, so I might as well sleep in it.
- I bought groceries, so I should wake up and eat them.
- I bought this beautiful kayak that brings me peace both in solitude and in company, so I should paddle.
These tiny splashes have gotten me through internal chaos and the larger, more destructive ripples, but they are no longer enough. Miller Road and the waters it led to were no longer enough. The weight of the DFW area and the “semi-permanence” of my RV space became intolerable. Most of my original goals left unaccomplished yet, oddly, more important ones attained, I loaded Sophie and hitched trailer to truck, and Sam and I set out again on the road.
Last Updated on December 15, 2023 by Lee Ellis
