Live Oak Blues What happens.

I took my best kayaking photo on the day I felt least like kayaking. I was down, mired in that spiral of self examination that turns into itself until all solutions have been sealed off. It is a feeling with which I am very familiar. I don’t even know the particulars of that day, only that I had no energy and that something told me to get my boat in the water. Once there, I pulled out the camera, took a few obligatory shots, finished paddling, and went home. The result was the picture to your left. I don’t even remember seeing the clouds or taking the picture.

And that’s why I paddle. Even the shortest trip involves the following: lifting the boat onto the rack, strapping the boat down, driving to the destination, unstrapping the boat, carrying the boat to the shore, pushing off, paddling, pulling the boat back on shore, carrying it to the car, restrapping it, and driving home. By definition, it requires forward movement. During the paddling portion of that ritual, the chances are far better than average that some kind of magic is going to happen: a conversation with a fisherman or a fellow paddler, a flock of ibises drilling into the mud for snails, a manatee buzzing my boat from below, a race with an alligator, a close call with quicksand, or the perfect reflection of clouds in still water.

I won’t pretend that kayaking is a guaranteed mood changer, but I do know that I have discovered far more about myself and the places I go than I thought possible when I bought my boat a little over a year ago. I like that it is deeply scarred now, from oyster beds, rocks, sand, misuse, and that through all that it has kept me afloat and moving forward, paddling even when I don’t want to paddle.