The day was gorgeous, and I was restless. I was staying on one of the many long-fingered peninsulas of Downeast Maine. Looking out to sea, the islands seemed within reach, tempting, beckoning.
I found myself at one of those rocky coves that passes for a beach up there. I was by myself that afternoon, but I simply had to get out there; I unloaded my trusty seakayak and shoved off into the cold water, headed to Bois Bubert, the nearest, uninhabited island. I worked my way around its protected side first, then out to the far side. From there, drunk on salt air and sunshine, I aimed for more open water to complete my circumnavigation. Petit Manan Island lay veiled in light fog, four miles out, too far for a solo paddle. I was careful; I know things can get tricky out there. If the wind blows toward the land while the tides are going out, the opposing force of wind and water create taller waves; steep and angrier waves that come in rapid succession. But these are the sort of tricky waters my Nordkapp kayak had been designed for. A tall intrepid British mariner once took a Nordkapp around Cape Horn, to prove what it was capable of, and wrote a book about it which I had studied. I loved my boat, how sleek and nimble it was, how responsive. How it felt almost tippy, but wasn’t if you befriended it. I was perhaps a little foolhardy.
A few clouds appeared, but I was confident and I pressed on.
Then all of a sudden, without warning, the wind force tripled, dark clouds obscured the sun, rain blinded me as it stung my face and hands. It was terrifying. An animal instinct made me want to turn around, race back to land. The waves were fast and furious; the wind was fierce and kept hurling sheets of water at me. I think I prepared to die.
Then something strange happened in my mind. Time abruptly shifted into slow gear. Everything stopped, silence roared in my ears, every split-second turned into long minutes of excruciating clarity. I saw, in exquisite detail, what would happen if I were to turn toward land. I saw the kayak turn get turned broadside by a merciless oncoming wave, saw myself tipping over, trying to hold on to the boat as I swam against the furious waves. I saw myself get thrown onto the rocks, mangled by barnacles, beaten senseless by wave upon wave, battered onto the granite shore.
I had heard such stories. And I knew then, coldly and without any doubt, that I had one, and only one option. I had to keep the nose of my Nordkapp pointed directly into the wind and away from land, and paddle for my life. It was my only chance at staying upright.
I obviously had no hope of making headway into this gale-force wind. But I could keep steady, at an ever-so-slight angle against the wind, and let the squall push me sideways, slowly ferrying me into the lee of the island behind me, to the calm water between the mainland and Bois Bubert. There was no time to think. I only knew, as I remembered some old paddling instruction, that I could let the squall itself ferry me to safety, by going against my instinct, and opposing it with all my strength. I knew it with the awful lucidity that comes from sudden extreme danger.
They say it is a lot like near-death lucidity, and that it is called the matrix effect.
I made it. Drained and exhilarated, I made it back to the house. By then the sun was out again; there was no sign of the rain that had drenched me. Everything was placid. One of my friends had been out on a fishing boat. He looked me over, frowning. “I saw a squall out there,” he said. I nodded. “I assume you weren’t out there, alone? Wait, don’t tell me – you were in it, weren’t you?” He shook his head. “You always seem…”
Powerful piece Rae!