The River Rat

The River Rat

Tuesday, October 4, 2016

Post Script: Unravelling

I had no idea it would be so difficult to just show up. That there would be such a visceral fear made no sense to me.  I am not afraid of these Muskoka lakes or rivers; they are kind and the shore is visible on all sides regardless of my distance from them. The water this September remains warm, regardless of outside temperature today. Yet, my stomach is in knots. My bowels twist. My breath is shallow and expectant of peril.  Still, here I am, with my River Rat.

I tuck in my yoke, tie on my food bag, my bivvy sac, my bailer.  My spare paddle.  My backpack with emergency rations, dry clothes, navigation lights. Attach the GPS spot that will keep me visible. I fight the urge to run or hide and try to just breathe. Right now, I'm okay.

I launch the River Rat into the water, in the rain, in the dim morning light. We all float out into the river; I hold a position behind the pack and still I fight the urge to disappear. Just breathe. I'm still okay.  I meet Heather from Peterborough - the only other solo female in the race, on a stand up paddleboard.  You're braver than me, I tell her. We share a dream of showing women younger than our 50+ years that they shouldn't be afraid to show up for this type of event. If we can do it...

The gun sounds and we are off.  I'm still okay.  Just paddle, and breathe. Tall, quick, quiet. Into Fairy Lake, I find I am keeping up to a male SUP and am just behind another in his solo canoe. The rain pours. I expect the tandem paddlers to pass me at any moment as I move into the big water of Fairy Lake, but I find that it's not until I'm almost off the lake and into the canal that they begin to overtake me. Greg and Lane among them, shouting out encouragement through the rain and I shout my smiles back to them. I carry on. Tall, quick, quiet. The rain pours.

Into the canal between Fairy and Peninsula I paddle along side a male kayaker; we have a comparable stroke rate at this point, but he is chatty and I am not.  Approaching the point where the road passes over the Canal from Deerhurst, I can see the bridge above lined with people waiting in the rain.  They are ringing bells and they shout encouragement from above.  Finally I smile as I am buoyed by their attention, their appreciation for this padding we do.  I am grateful for their presence on this bridge, on this morning, in the rain.  I feel my smile broaden as I glance up towards them, raining their cheers down over us all.  It's a blessing, an acknowledgement that there is more to it than just the paddling.

Through the Canal then, and out into Peninsula Lake. I could just detour over to my friend's home, I think to myself, and call it a day. I stay true though and skim the eastern shore, continuing on towards the Portage, Ratty and I not wavering from this journey we are on. The  rain pours down and the wind picks up. Thankful for my bow and stern covers, there is already plenty of water sloshing around my feet from the rain.  As yet another tandem boat passes me, we shout out encouragement and thoughts on the weather. The bow paddler notes how, in a movie he recalls, an actor says, "At least it's not raining now", and then it comes down in buckets.  As he tells this, the rain upon us intensifies.  "Oh, are you That Guy?" I shout back - we laugh.

The short distance from Hills Island in Pen Lake to the Portage is made longer by the wind.  It's in my face and I'm disheartened by the number of boats passing me. All tandem, but still.  I try to keep up my pace. Finally reaching shore, I jump out. Paddle, pack, water. Put my yoke in place. Lifting the stern, Ratty is unusually heavy and hesitant. This is not going to be pretty, I think to myself as I smile wryly at those shouting encouragement from the beach. It takes a few tries and as I finally slosh Ratty over far enough to have the water run out and shower down, I scoot under and into the yoke to begin the walk over the portage to Lake of Bays, where my journey continues.  Friends join me on the portage and I appreciate their company, yet my thoughts are on what will happen on the big lake.

At the beach I slide Ratty into the water and jump in, quickly paddling away from the landing and the crowd.  How did I get this far, already? I have had little nutrition yet which I know is a mistake but with the wind... how to pause?  Just before leaving the bay, I find some shelter behind an island and quickly eat a boiled egg before heading out into the wide expanse of lake. It surprises me that there are still tandem boats passing me. Am I not last, yet? Why do I care?

Around Brittania Point, I'm now in to the wide expanse of the lake and I know this is my test. The wind is from the south - southeast, and my paddle dips in on my right side probably 15 times more than on my left. I remember to breathe and think how I'm still okay, even though the Advil hasn't helped the pain in my wrist. How warm it is in spite of the wet weather. How it could have been foggy, but it isn't - and so I don't have to pull out my compass for bearings. How, even though it's windy, and choppy, there is no small craft warning. How the wind is just wind, the same wind for everyone, propelling maple keys and frosting the tops of the waves with white foam. It is not sinister, it just is. Like the rain. It does not conspire against me; in fact I cannot live without it.  I am grateful for it.  I am part of it.

Alone on the lake with my thoughts, paddling hard into the wind. I watch the shore and note my slow forward progress. I cry as I think of those times in my life where I felt left behind, abandoned.  The littlest sister - never fast enough or good enough or big enough or tough enough or girl enough.  This is not one of those times.  I am not Little Monik any more, but she is here with me and I honour her today - her bright spirit and big smile.  My heart leaps for her.  Today is for her.

My arms keep paddling, my boat dips and bobs through the waves yet feels steady beneath me; it comforts me.  I think how far ahead Greg and Lane are ahead of me, and I know they will be okay and I am proud of them. Thankful for Greg, for not questioning my changes and indecision, and for supporting me.  Thankful for Lane and of his commitment to family - both the one he came from and more importantly the one he is creating here, now. I hear in my head the soundtrack from Eryn's most recent music.   It keeps me company now as I travel through the waves, through this emptiness of water and space, and I am grateful for her company.  I laugh my gratitude for my family to the rain, to the wind, the sky. I am connected. I am part of the oneness of this life and I know it, I feel it.

In spite of being out in the middle of Lake of Bays, in the wind and the rain, a sense of calm rolls over me like a tide. The fear is gone, has dissipated. I remember why I love to paddle as the boundaries between myself, my boat and the environment become blurred. My sense of not being "enough" can remain behind me, I have paddled through and I have persisted and I can smile. I understand I can do this.  This paddle, this life. In my wet, sore, tired solitude, I feel I have won my race, and this feeling sustains me the rest of the long way to Baysville, where I finish.  With no regrets.

***

As I lie on her table, Allie coaxes the stories out of my shoulders, out of my heart.  It's a curious process, a process that supports the idea of muscle memory and, more than that, of cellular memory that's deep - deep within my tissues and begins within my DNA. I can't deny it though, as her strong, persistent pressure on these shoulders that paddled almost 40km in 7 hours, through wind and rain, reveal their knots and stories to her, to me. Stories I am still coming to understand, myself. Stories that I feel in my muscles and feel in my heart, and with my tears. Stories I didn't even realize were there.  Thank you Allie, for helping me to see; for your part in helping me unravel my story.