Solo Mission

Campsite at Prevost, serenaded by Selkies.

So, admittedly I am not so great at this 'staying put' gig. Especially when the going gets tough…I am often the tough getting gone. There have been a lot of things in the past 6 months that could have pushed me away from the physical place that I have planted myself in. I was asked repeatedly after my dog was shot by a neighbour in August whether I would move. I didn't but the place…my house, the property and neighbourhood, the drive to town and walk to the mailbox have been irrevocably tainted by the fact that I would pass the site of Piper's death. The place where we raced to gather up his small body, still warm, into my arms. More recently there are lingering memories of something wonderful, but quickly lost. I am disoriented in the aftermath of this magical, heartfelt, and breathtaking thing, wondering and confounded by what just happened. This is the thing about staying put…it invites me to feel the echoes of loss more often than if I were to leave.

Perhaps that is true.

Lunchspot.

This past weekend I went on a little solo trip. Most of my life I have paced the wide line between craving a home place and the need to move, adventure, wander. I revel in the fact that I am able to throw together my gear, food, and a plan in a few hours and take off (in January no less) by kayak. Despite the lack of snow this year, and in general in my area (I love snow and winter and it is one thing that makes me seriously question at times my current geographical choice), there are many pretty awesome things about living in a temperate coastal place. A launch into the Pacific within 5-45 minutes is one of them. While the Gulf Islands reminded me a little bit of car camping in a kayak with toilet paper stocked outhouses and picnic tables at every site, in January it is dead quiet. Even on a weekend as glorious as this last there was no one else out there. Except a few thousand seals.

On my little weekend trip I paddled pretty hard most days, at least once racing to get across a channel before a humungous BC ferry could run me over. I monitored channel 11 on the VHF for news of shipping traffic in the slightly obsessive and mildly terrified way of a lone paddler, and gleaned from my chart and observations which boats would cross my path and when in an area that was new to me. The days are short right now too, so making the miles to the next campsite before dark without rushing through my morning coffee was also a factor. It was fun in the way I sometimes like to have fun - just a bit freaked out and a little uncertain. Enough to keep me on my toes and in the present moment.

On the first day, right after I launched I realized that I had spent more time of late checking out avalanche forecasts and looking at mountain topography than nautical charts, and as a result my perspective was skewed. For a time after I launched I felt disoriented and a bit panicked. It mirrored the disorientation I have felt sometimes in the wake of all that has come to pass this year. Certainly over the past few weeks I have felt so confounded, confused, unsure. That I had lost my bearings in the wake of an intense certainty.

Leaving Canoe Cove, not many meters away from where the "Coastal Celebration" rumbled ominously in it's port, the geography of the place was so obscured by the sheer scale of the ferries and their mooring jetties that for a good 20 minutes I was unable to situate myself on the chart. But I moved, checked out different islands in an effort to figure out exactly where I was. I paddled slowly and in a non-linear way, and tried to keep myself calm and present in the face of the approaching sunset.  Ultimately, once out of the shadow of the behemoth ferries and human features on the landscape I found myself again on the point of a small island, the San Juans before me and Sidney Harbour at my back. It was a moment when the scale and mess of islands on the chart and in the world suddenly became clear, and I was able to set a bearing on my destination for the night.
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Maybe that's how it is. Amidst all this stillness some movement is necessary, critical. There were times in the rhythm of paddling on flat water with a clear destination that I found myself falling into waves of sadness, frustration, and rumination over recent things. But I also found myself noticing where I was and falling steadily into the task at hand. The smell and feel of ocean air, birds and seals speaking in their different ways, and the simplicity of pushing glass through salt water.