Wednesday, 08 July 2009

• It's Not That There Isn't...

  ... much to say, it's just that there isn't any way in which to say it.  Any good way, anyway.  I suppose some way is better than no way, but it's difficult to know which way is okay.

  Sometimes life is glass water and silent paddles slicing j-strokes under perfect skies.  Serene, surreal... nothing can disturb the one piloting her canoe.

  I just found a piece of plastic in my cleavage.

  Which goes to my point that life as of recent has been unpredictable to say the least.  I have not been paddling through pristine waters.  Truth be told, it hasn't been smooth seas for a long time.  But as many folks are, I seem to be pretty good at covering that up.

  When I was in highschool, I attended Awana Canadian Adventure, a fantastic camping experience that is no longer owned by Awana, but even if it were, there's never any going back.  You experience those intense highs in life and then they are put into your scrapbook and if you are lucky, they effect your life forever.

  Our group, our little family for the week, called ourselves the Chatlain's Canoeing Crew.  Chatlain, because that was the name of our leaders.  Canoeing, because we seemed to canoe everywhere, even where we didn't need to.  Crew, because it is a synonym for group and it starts with a C and it didn't seem like the word "cult" would be a positive option.

  One day we had been out for the afternoon, hiking to a waterfall, enjoying the outdoors.  By the time we headed back to base camp, the wind had picked up and the water was choppy.  My partner most of the week was Dan M.  I not only remember his last name, I can even spell it, and it's a tricky name, so that's something.  He was a decent paddler, but not the strongest, and I certainly was no champion at the task myself. 

  So the waves began rising and the water was churning up white caps, and then the rain began.  Pounding rain on open water makes it difficult to navigate.  Rivulets streaming off your head, sharp points of rain pocking the surface of the lake until it is shattered glass incapable of seeing through.  We paddled fiercely, no conversation, eyes fixed on the shore that never seemed any closer, stroke after stroke, fighting off the water edging over the canoe and the hysteria creeping into our psyches.

  We were 200 feet from the shore when someone sent a boat out for us.  They'd tie our canoe to the back and pull us in safely.

  Dan said "No."

  I was in the front of the canoe, unable to tell which were raindrops on my face and which were tears.

  He said "No, we have to do this."

  So we paddled.  The boat picked up two other couples and towed them in to safety.  We fought our way to the dock and tied up, exhausted, emotional, and victorious.

  There have been many times in my life that I have remembered that day and remembered that lesson.  I found myself in a very similar setting once when I was the group leader and responsible for two teenagers in my canoe that was threatening to swamp at any moment.  "Dan and I made it to shore," I told myself.  "I can do this."

  And now I look around and I see white caps and murky water and life churning around me, and it's scary.  Things that seem like they should be easy, aren't.  They never really are though.  I suppose I'm fooling myself to think that they ever were.  Meanwhile I struggle to stay upright, to face the challenge head on, to emerge from the other end, battle weary, but safely home.

  The shore line is visible, but oh so far away.

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