Why are we here? How am I here, looking the way I do, talking the way I speak, dreaming the way I dream? What do Orca’s eat? Why do they prefer seals? How do seals know to run away? What makes a predator scary? Teeth? Why teeth? How do we know to run away? What did we wear as homo erectus? How long did it take to get how we are now? Why are we here? Ah, now this, THIS, is the circle of life.
A large splash of salty water prys me into consciousnesses. The first thing I see is my bright orange kayak. For a moment, I shock myself when I realize I am at the mercy of the water of the Gulf Islands. Right now, I can see she is calm. A few fun bumps every now and then, but mostly tame. I look around to see my group, broken land and rock, kelp, the odd otter, and trees. Lots, and lots, of trees. Beautiful, tall, old, and wise with the years it’s endured on these shores. The water’s attitude is not yet the most frightening thing out here. It’s the ferries. From them, we are named “speed bumps”. Something our guide so care-freely, matter-of-factly, remarked. For us, they are giant metal tanks driving at a fast pace on a route that does not change, kayakers, or no kayakers. Knowing this, we are in constant anxiety of the next ferry crossing. One comes up close. Upon starting it our guide makes a quick speech. Keep in mind, the six of us are fourteen to sixteen year-olds.
“Alright. I need y’all to paddle as fast as your little chicken arms can take you. When you feel like you can’t, keep going. It doesn’t matter because we have to cross anyways otherwise you’ll die. And I don’t want anyone dying because that is a lot of paperwork for me when I get home. Sound good?”
No, not good. We all line up and wait for the OK. He shouts go and it is literally a race for life and death. I feel the sweat building up underneath my jaw, behind my ears, under my legs. The constant splashes of extremely salty water demand entry into my kayak and, mouth. I can feel the build-up dragging me down, sloshing around inside the boat and mixing with the sand of our last stop. I choke on the water for a little while but it does not matter, keep paddling. Keep paddling I tell myself. It feels like I’ve been paddling for hours. It takes what feels like an eternity before he shouts “We’re halfway there!”. The only sign of support he’s shown since the start of the trip. I feel my arms burning and bruising and going lactic. No, no, no. That can’t happen. I take a three second break before my guide yells at me to keep paddling. Seeing the next island I get a burst of energy. Finding the stored energy within me, deep inside me, I paddle on and find the rest of the group at the end of the ferry crossing. Knowing I am in the middle of the ocean’s islands and have just defeated death, I feel free. Completely and utterly alive and free. I reached down and dip my fingertips to the water. It’s cold, really cold. Losing this enchanting feeling and connection I’m having with the ocean, our guide tells us to move on. I can tell he is also in a way, satisfied. Despite one’s love or hate, soft or hard attitude, the serene feeling of presence and zen within nature heals all and brings out our innate calling to not just be in nature, but to be natural.