To Kayak Or Not To Kayak
by Diana L. Dycus

I could see the headlines in my mind—“Woman dies of fright on the Chesapeake Bay.”  Or,  “Young woman drowns in two feet of water after her kayak flips and she is unable to free herself.”  As it turns out, I still haven’t made the papers.  The upshot is that I’m still alive to complain about it.

The first time I went kayaking, I was scared to death.  Don’t get me wrong—I love the water.  I’ve spent most of my life near it.  The tranquil strength of a bay, the ever-changing patterns of the sun-lit ocean, the serenity of a whispering stream—these are to me, the most beautiful blessings of nature.  I’ve felt that way all my life, but when I was eight, I nearly drowned while my family was vacationing off the coast of Mexico.  Since then, nightmarish memories of being dragged out to sea by an undertow have kept me a safe distance up the beach, wistfully thinking of the days when water held no demons for me.

A few months ago, I met a guy named Greg.  He was an intern at the company where I recently started working, and he decided that he was going to get me to conquer my fear of the water by taking me  kayaking in the Chesapeake Bay.

It was a Friday night when Greg made this proclamation—or, rather, it was the wee hours of Saturday morning.  We had just returned from a night of bar hopping in Baltimore, and I was exhausted.  Greg told me that he and his friend Doug were going kayaking at 11 the next morning.  He then proceeded to con me into going.  First he asked politely.  Then he told me that I was going—“no ifs, ands, or buts about it.”  When I continued to hedge, images of huge waves holding me captive running through my head, he resorted to tickling. To get him to stop, I agreed to go.  My friend Kim sat next to me and shook her head, “She’s never going to go, Greg.” 

Amazingly enough, I met the guys the next morning, bright eyed and bushy-tailed—and scared out of my wits.  As we drove out to the water, I tried unsuccessfully to convince Greg that I would be better off sitting on the shore, watching to make sure that they were okay.  I feigned sleepiness, headaches, and came up with a million pathetic reasons as to why I should stay on the beach.  None of it worked.

So there I was, trembling, as Greg helped me into my kayak.  Sitting there, my legs trapped inside the narrow fiberglass boat, I wondered how I was ever going to survive, all the while feeling as though I were trapped inside a large, floating banana.  I hate bananas.  I remember being handed my paddle, and then the world got blurry.  Greg pushed me off the shore and while my kayak floated in seemingly innocent, lazy circles, he prepared his own kayak.  I never stopped thinking of ways to torture him after the day was through—if I survived.

Once we finally got underway, my trembling ceased as I concentrated on paddling, staying upright, and listening to Greg’s instruction.  I began paddling determinedly out to the island that Greg had pointed to as our landing spot, while the boys impressed themselves by riding into motorboat wakes and doing various tricks.  Half way out to the island, I stopped paddling and looked around.  Taking a deep breath, I realized how amazingly beautiful my surroundings were.  

The sun was bright, the water clear, and the pair of islands in front of me were uninhabited and absolutely breathtaking.  For the first time all day, I smiled.  Beginning to paddle once again, I felt my fears slipping away.  By the time I arrived on the beach, I was full of energy and eager to receive the praise that I felt I had so richly deserved.  All Greg had to say was, “See, I told you that you weren’t gonna die.”

Nevertheless, I felt charged.  I did it! I had wedged myself into a boat, and paddled my way across the water! My enthusiasm didn’t waiver as we hiked over the hill in the center of the island, nor did my confidence slip as we climbed back into our kayaks.  I felt I could do anything.  Except paddle.

My new, overwhelming confidence had somehow shorted out my memory.  I couldn’t remember how to paddle!  I went in crazy circles and nauseating zig-zag patterns.  I was lost.  Greg called out instructions to my back as I paddled in the wrong direction.  He held out his hands to stop my kayak as I came careening in to him.  He even encouraged me when I said that I felt like a monkey doing calculus.  With his support, I finally managed to direct my kayak back to the beach where we had parked the car.  As I stepped out onto the shore, I wanted to cry.  I felt like a complete failure.  

Greg didn’t see it that way—and though he teased me a bit on our drive back, I could tell that he was happy.  I had gotten out on the water despite my fears, and he had upheld his promise of not letting anything happen to me.

Greg went back to school a few weeks ago, taking his kayaks with him, and I’ve settled back into my routine of “look, but don’t touch” when it comes to water.  I know now, though, that if the opportunity rises again, that I can survive—and conquer.  

Kayaking really is a wonderful experience, and for those who have never tried it, I would recommend a short trip in a nearby pool of blue.  Fear shouldn’t hold you captive.  It’s taken me a lot of years to realize that, but thanks to a guy named Greg, I’m beginning to see the light—and it’s glinting off the bay.

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Revised: September 07, 2003