The latest from my Tuesday morning writers group. Our prompt this morning was: “Describe a time in your life you felt entirely free, truly yourself.”  This is what I wrote …

It was beautiful. The world was beautiful, the world that was my kayak, a paddle, the amniotic waters of Blue Hill Bay, and whatever happened to hold my gaze as I floated along the Brooklin shoreline.

I had launched that morning from Center Harbor, sliding my kayak into the water from the pebbly beach below the Brooklin Boat Yard, intending to paddle the fifteen or so miles to the South Blue Hill town wharf. I slipped past Chatto Island, paddling south and east down the Reach. My arms and torso settled into a steady rhythm, boat and body melded, a single machine, quiet and smooth and efficient.

I paddled past the Torreys, the Babsons, Hog and Harbor. It had been an hour or so, I suppose, but time and even distance mattered little. What mattered was simply being there, dipping my fingers into the cool waters, feeling the glide of the boat under my hips, delighting in the marine paradise that is Maine.

Turning north around Naskeag, making steady progress across the mouth of Herrick Bay towards Flye Point, the easy rhythm continued uninterrupted, and I marveled at how far I had come already, so quickly, so easily, and with such joy. Halfway already!

As I neared the base of Harriman Point, I celebrated the day, this wondrous and beautiful day that I had chosen for my expedition: light breeze, calm waters, smooth sailing. I had no more finished this thought, when I looked ahead to see a dark and angry and turbulent shadow rushing toward me down the bay from the north, a sailor’s cat’s paw multiplied a thousand times.

I beached on Harriman’s Point scouting the route that would take me across Blue Hill Bay to the wharf. What did I have left? Four miles, five miles? I waited for a lull, but no lull came, just more wind, relentless and furious. I thought of hiking overland, but I had no phone, no way of letting my wife know where I has landed, where to find me.

So I launched.

There was no smooth and easy rhythm now, but an all-consuming fight for survival, no steady progress, but a battle for each yard, each foot, each inch. Right blade, left blade, dig, dig, stroke, stroke, pull, pull. Soon, all too soon, arms and upper body and will were exhausted, but I dare not break this new and frenzied rhythm. If I stopped paddling even for a moment, I would lose all my precious gains or be swept back onto the point. So, dig, dig, stroke, stroke, pull, pull.

I still waited for a lull, but wind and surf only grew more intense, twenty-five knot winds and three foot waves. Right blade, left blade, dig, dig, pull, pull, never stopped, but at the same time I had to fight to remain upright, all the time imagining where and how I and my boat would be pushed by the storm if I were to capsize, and whether either of us would survive it.

Wind blew into my face and waves crashed over the bow and gunwales of my boat, drenching me in cold and salty ocean. I screamed at them. I screamed aloud into the wind and waves shouting at them to leave me alone, to let me go. Every moment, all my moments, were now the same, the ocean, my boat and me locked in eternal struggle, the sea forcing its will on me and me refusing to relent. This was my life, this is my life. I had never been so trapped, so held against my will, so threatened by irresistible powers so far far beyond my own. And I had never felt so free, so much myself …

 

Also, we have just published Eggemoggin Reach Review Volume III, an anthology of poetry and prose from members of the Deer Isle Writers’ Group. I have five poems and two essays in the anthology. The book is available through Blue Hill Books.