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Chapter 5: When the Paddling Gets Scary

14/9/2010

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Picture
Left: Pic from inside our tent, looking onto Highland Games Island
Right: Dave and I waring our "choobs"

I was quite happy and ready to leave Highland Games Island to search out a new island.  However, I hadn't taken my motion sickness medicine and was feeling fairly average after about 15 minutes.  I tried to swallow the feeling away and get enraptured in the scenery.  It's hard to explain how a chain of islands can be so diverse, continually offering something new to see.  All of the islands have their own character - some of them are jagged and rough with large patches of grass; others offer large surfaces of smooth rock with little patches of grass.  Each location offers a new vantage point - and all of it grand when you're sitting just a few feet from the water's surface.  We paddled into an area that felt protected, yet completely exposed.  It's hard to explain.  It's the same sort of feeling I had once when I went skiing in the Rockies; I was at the peak of a mountain looking up at the distant peak of another ridge.  To my left was all of the activity of the mountain - the skiiers, the ski lift, the signs, the snow.  But to my right it felt as if the mountain just dropped off and you were standing on a cloud of nothing.  Comfort wrapped in anxiety.  It was like that during this particular paddle of the archipelagos.  There is something beautiful about a fear like that.

The group started talking about finding a place to shore up so we could relax a bit and eat our lunch before finding a new island to set up camp.  We found this quiet little cove, dotted with tiny islands.  And on one of these islands sat a lone house.  With a massive dock.  It offered the perfect landing point.  Before I knew it, we were moored and unpacking at the backdoor of some Swede's summer home.   I didn't like it at all.  I'm not a rule-breaker by nature.  I dislike confrontation and follow the rules so as to not upset the invisible scales that will lead to some sort of conflict.  Here we were basically tresspassing.  But it was clear that this was what the group was going to do.  So I just tried the best to shrink inside of myself while we ate lunch.  Besides, it didn't look like anyone was home.  Their dock was clear of any boats and most likely, the lucky bastards who owned this amazing property had gone for the summer, after only spending two weeks there.  Not that I was jealous.  We spread out on the dock and a few of the guys approached the house to see if anyone was home - it looked totally dark.  The rest of us reached into our drybags to piece together a lunch.   I tried to relax even though my chest tightened up a little every time a boat went whizzing past.  After about a half an hour had passed I think the rest of the crew was feeling it too and we agreed to move on. 

It was a sunny day and warm enough that some of us opted not to wear a rash vest or rain jacket under our life jackets.  It was nearly a perfect day.  But it was windy.  And that made the water very turbulent.  We found ourselves in very choppy water, but it happened quite subtlely - the waves getting a little stronger with each stroke.  Kind of like heating up a frog in a frying pan.  Before we knew it, we felt like we might as well be in the middle of the ocean, miles away from land.  I was too scared to be sick.  I've got to hand it to the designers of those sea kayaks, because despite the rough waters they remained pretty stable.  It was almost too scary to process at the moment - all you know is that you have to keep paddling otherwise you may end up capsized and struggling.  So we paddled.  And paddled.  Muscles burning.  Feeling like you were going nowhere.  It felt like we were stuck in some sort of vortex and would be there forever.  But the islands seemed to be moving, so I knew we were making progress, albeit slow.  Slowly I began to notice that there were people standing on top of the islands we were passing; they were gawking and pointing, talking to each other.  I felt like we were on some sort of extreme sport show.  It was pretty cool.  I remember thinking how awesome that was, to be the subject of people's awe at they must have thought was stupidity.  I've never been that sporty so this was a new feeling for me.  And kind of gave me the gas to keep going.  Finally, after what felt like hours, we found ourselves in the calm waters of a marina and paddling felt so easy and fluid.  It was a gorgeous transition.  We were back at the beach we'd visited just days before on the island of Lysekil.  It was so nice to see some familiar terriroty.  And then came one of those precious moments in life that give you a permanent grin.  As we were unpacking our boats an older couple came up and were talking to Erica in Swedish.  Turns out they'd been among the people watching us from the top of the island and they'd taken photos of us.  Wicked!  To be captured on camera by strangers while we were in the midst of our most terrifying paddle of the trip - acting the part of extreme kayakers - and photographic evidence to back it up.  They took Erica's email address and promised to send her the pics when they got back from vacation.  Mind you, I've yet to see the pics, but I know they're out there somewhere.  And that's good enough.

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Holiday in Sweden, Chapter 4 - Leaving Yoga Island

4/9/2010

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Leaving Yoga Island, as the gang came to refer to it, was difficult for me.  I easily imagined myself spending several days exploring every crevice and rock, finding new boulders to perch on while basking in the sun.  It seemed perfect.  Just below the Penthouse Suite was a tarn of fresh water – deep, cold and the color of tea.  It was like a natural spa.  I found I could lie down on my back on the rock by the tarn and by just leaning my head gently back, as you would at a salon, I could wash my hair.  The water came nearly up to my waste if I stood in it, which allowed me to take a brisk sponge bath.   I had my fiancé, food, fresh water, gorgeous scenery…I couldn’t imagine a more perfect place to soak in life and nature.  I wanted to stay.  But, as they say, the show must go on.  So it was with a slight sense of loss that I helped take down our tent and repack our gear. 


Here’s a bit of irony for the story, if you can call it that.  I suffer from motion sickness and am particularly vulnerable to sea sickness, a fact I discovered only in the past few years when I visited Florida.  I was on a small deep sea fishing charter boat (I don’t even like fishing).  I started to feel nauseous which came as no great shock as I’ve suffered the same plight while riding in a car.  Slowly the nausea grew and seemed to crawl up the back of my head and spread its horrible fingers across the top of my brain, like poisonous honey – thick and goopy, inescapable.  And then I could feel it really take hold; my mouth felt like a spit factory.  The finer details are a bit fuzzy to me now, but somehow the captain was able to provide me with a bit bucket to toss the contents of my stomach into.  It was indeed one of my finer moments.  Just to make sure this was a true affliction I engaged in the same scenario the following year.  At least the second boat had a bathroom.  I’m glad to say I’ve wised up since then and was not about to trust my stomach to the open waters during this vacation.  So I stocked up on motion sickness medicine.  On the day we left Yoga Island I knew the group would be in for a long paddle, so I took a pill – just one, the recommended dosage.  It didn’t even touch the sickness.  I felt the familiar creeping of nausea.  Dammit!  It felt like the paddle that day would never end.  It felt like the paddle would never end.  I was blind to my surroundings.  The awe and beauty was gone.  My vision was black.  And my frustration and irritation was growing.  But there was no relief and nothing to do about it – we were in the middle of water and Erica had a destination in mind so there was nothing to do but to keep going.  And then, what’s this?  We’re there?  Ahhhhh….a harbor.  Finally.  Wait a minute – what?  We have to turn around?  I remember yelling to Dave, “where the fuck are we going?”  I was mad.  But only because I was sick.  And I knew I was being a baby, so I ate my anger, pushed my irritation down to the pit of my belly to join the gastric juices and half-digested fruit and walnuts from the morning’s breakfast.  We entered a narrow strait and then we were exposed to the most open body of water we’d encountered so far.  And it was choppy.  So I reached into the depths of my being and latched on to my yoga focus, my third eye, my drishdi.  And I stopped thinking.  I placed an imaginary focus point in front of me and just paddled and paddled – my arms moving as if I were a robot, the rest of me shut down.  And after about a half an hour, maybe more, we were there.  The beach was the most boggy and littered we’d been to so far, but I didn’t care.  The smell of salt water and fish was pungent, but I tried my best to ignore it and took in a deep breath.  Annie, the dear heart she is, took note of my suffering and placed her cold hands on my forehead and neck and rubbed my back until I felt better.  It worked like a charm. 

The island we had landed on was populated with summer homes, a football pitch and an ice cream shop (there is a god!).  The beach neighbored a large lot of grass with a substantial fire pit.  After getting settled in, we took a wander along the path into “town” and stopped at the ice cream shop for some refreshing treats.  It’s funny how pre-packaged cones of slightly cold sugary plastic disguised as a dessert food can taste so good when you’ve been roughing it and eating only the food in your kit.  Which is so silly to say, because it’s not like we were starved or ever very far from civilization and a shop to re-stock on provisions.  But I think there is a psychological element to a trip like ours when you’re essentially in the middle of the sea (although never too far from land), protected from the masses of jellyfish and cold water by a relatively thin sheet of plastic.  And when you’re not a strong swimmer, like me, I think it’s a thought that never really leaves your mind.  No matter how near land and how much kit you’ve packed in your boat, you’re still exposed to the elements.  And should the weather take a quick and nasty turn, you’re vulnerable.  I never took that for granted.  So ice cream, no matter how hydrogenated, was a comforting symbol of safety. 

This island came to be known as the Island of the Highland Games.  Men never truly leave their boyhood behind and their propensity to throw rocks, I’m convinced, is never abandoned.  When you’re on an island loaded with rocks, what else is there to do but to make up some games that involve throwing rocks – tiny ones, big ones, really heavy ones.  And I have to admit there’s something really intriguing about watching a group of guys hurling rocks toward an invisible goal.  I couldn’t resist.  Neither could the rest of the girls.  So we all participated in a rock throwing and hurling contest.  The girls ended up bowing out early, but they guys kept at it for ages.  It was good fun.  After awhile, we all returned to the fire (the result of another well-ingrained characteristic of the male species).  The guys drank whiskey and told stories to make us all laugh.  The girls instituted the Massage Club and traded massages with each while being entertained by the pranks of the opposite sex.  
Picture
Left: Packing up from Yoga Island
Right: Paddling away in the open waters

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