Goals aren't important. At least not in any cosmic sort of way. But they do make life interesting. They give it structure. And what game doesn't have goals, or points, or some equivalent? And I love games. So I am a goal setter, if for no other reason, to play games with myself regularly. Sometimes goals just pesker you forward until acheived. We spent the morning hitchhiking to Jozani Forest for walks among majestic trees and close up looks at red colobus monkeys indigineous to the island. The monkeys ham it up for the camera. They have good agents and PR people it seems. Maybe that is what all the rangers and staff sitting around actually do. Because these monkeys are definitely camera trained.
We return to Bwejuu Beach to find the wave line calling. So I recruit my sister as my first mate and we carry the two-person yellow inflatable kayak the 100 meters to the beach. It is awkward to carry, so I tell Mara to drop her end. I drag it across the sand toward the water. As I lather on sunscreen, we encounter our first obstacle.
I later learned his name is Basil. He waves snorkeling flippers as he approaches. "This is my boat," he explains. "I didn't know she was going to let you use it." He goes on to reprimand me about dragging it in the sand. "If there were a broken bottle, it could put a hole in the boat. Then you would say you're sorry and go back to your country. That's it. And I would be left with a hole in my boat." He then shows me the fin on the bottom and adds that it could easily break being dragged like that. I apologize, plead ignorance, and apologize some more until we get his blessings for our journey. We leave Annette to learn his name and make friends. Mara and I head to the sea.
There is a strong wind blowing toward the shore. We get in easily and start paddling. But the wind keeps pushing us sideways against the waves. For every stroke on the left, I paddle twice on the right. The waves aren't big, but they're enough to keep us gripping our paddles tightly as we find our equilibrium in a strange boat in a strange land on a strange sea. We paddle against the wind. The breaking point of the waves doesn't look any closer. But the shore is further away. We paddle until I feel it in my shoulders. If we stop, it seems we blow back toward the shore and the waves rock us more. But the breaking point is getting closer.
We paddle for nearly an hour. Mara uses her boxing muscles and boxing grit as salt water splashes in her eyes with each cycle of the paddle. She reaches her paddle into the water from the front of the boat. It no longer touches the bottom. The water is clear. The bottom looks to be two feet away. But it is probably three meters or more. As we approach the breaking point, the wind picks up. We paddle into the wind and waves to keep the boat stable.
Huge pieces of coral decorate the sea floor beneath us. Mara's paddle can touch. It has gotten shallower. The waves seem smaller from this distance. Hard to imagine they sound so loud a mile away on the shore. But they have the wind's help. And she can be quite a helper when she is on your side. But she is working against us right now.
We rest for a moment, watching the waves as they seem to break for no reason a mile from the shore. But the reef is shallow enough for them to know to break here. Or perhaps the moon tells them to do it in its mysterious messages about the tides. We paddle towards them until it looks that the cresting waves will break in Mara's lap. But each time they roll under us, our nose points down, we dip, and then rise again. We agree to paddle until one of us gets scared. Mara protests that she doesn't want to be the one who sounds the alarm. Reminds me of climbing Mt. Marcy in the unexpected November snow with my two older brothers and how thankful they were that I was the first to volunteer the idea of turning around.
It seems we might even be able to paddle through to the other side of the breaking point. The side of Somali pirates, kangaroos and emus. The waves get bigger as we approach. They look like they are going to crash on us. So, I sweep the oar twice to my right, turning us 180 degrees and saving Mara some face. We paddle away from the break.
We paddle and paddle, but it feels like we are going nowhere. After the resistance of the wind, the oar in the water feels vapid. It's as if the water as no resistance for us to push against. I wonder for a moment if our apparent stillness is from an unseen current or unknown undertow pulling us back towards the breaking waves.
"Following seas," I say, mostly to myself. I remember sailing into Naragansett Bay with Derek two July 3rds ago at the end of one hundred miles and three days of sailing. We had following seas, waves a few feet tall, pushing us forward, rolling under our boat, knocking the keel loudly against sometehing with each wave. It felt like it took forever among graying skies and growing clouds to sail into that bay that day. All beacuse the sea was moving the same direction we were.
"It is because of the following seas," I reassure Mara and myself. We keep paddling. Back into that no man's land where the departure point and the destination both seem to recede towards the horizon. Perhaps this is the point where a trip becomes a journey.
We keep paddling, mostly to prove to ourselves that we are, in fact, moving. And we are. I see a man in a snorkel mask wave both hands in the air several hundred meters ahead. We passed two snorkelers on our way out. I wonder if they are in trouble. We paddle with purpose that direction. As we approach, I recognize Basil. He is snorkeling and swimming, seemingly unaware of our presence.
"You ok?" I ask, as he comes up.
"I was scared," he says, panting. "I saw you paddling past the reef. I forgot to tell you not to go past the breaking waves. The currents there are really strong. It doesn't look like it, but you won't be able to make it back. Once there was a guy from the U.K. who took this boat out there with his girlfriend. He couldn't get back. Finally, they paddled up to the bay five kilometers away. It took until 8 o'clock. I had to go pick them and the boat up in my car."
Mara and I chuckle. "Yeah, we were too scared to paddle past the waves." He offers us a spin with his snorkeling mask. Mara declines. After he reassures me I will be able to get back into the boat without tipping it, I take him up. I put the mask on and jump out of the boat. The water is cool and refreshing. The bottom grassy. I swim around to find patches of coral and sea urchins. It is clear we are no longer at the reef. So I return the mask and climb surprisingly easily back into the boat. We start to paddle away as Basil goes back to snorkeling. With his flippers, he swims almost as quickly as we paddle. He dives under the boat and comes up with a huge red starfish in his hand. It's the size of my head. He shows it off with a smile. I ask him if he has seen the blue starfish. He nods. We paddle off while he returns the starfish to its place on the sea floor and disappears in the torquoise water.
The wind is at our backs. I try lifting our paddle into the wind, but it only spins us around. I realize we need a keel to have a sail. So, I ask Mara to hold her paddle against the wind and I stick mine into the water as a rudder. Occasionally I correct our course with a stroke or two. We approach the shore quickly. As I watch Annette get up from her chair with the camera, I see danger ahead. Pirates! Fortunately, we are close to the shore. And the pirates are under ten years old. One boy boards the front of the boat. Mara hands him the oar. Another climbs on behind me. They corral the boat into shore, welcoming us home from our wild journey to the breaking point.
We return to Bwejuu Beach to find the wave line calling. So I recruit my sister as my first mate and we carry the two-person yellow inflatable kayak the 100 meters to the beach. It is awkward to carry, so I tell Mara to drop her end. I drag it across the sand toward the water. As I lather on sunscreen, we encounter our first obstacle.
I later learned his name is Basil. He waves snorkeling flippers as he approaches. "This is my boat," he explains. "I didn't know she was going to let you use it." He goes on to reprimand me about dragging it in the sand. "If there were a broken bottle, it could put a hole in the boat. Then you would say you're sorry and go back to your country. That's it. And I would be left with a hole in my boat." He then shows me the fin on the bottom and adds that it could easily break being dragged like that. I apologize, plead ignorance, and apologize some more until we get his blessings for our journey. We leave Annette to learn his name and make friends. Mara and I head to the sea.
There is a strong wind blowing toward the shore. We get in easily and start paddling. But the wind keeps pushing us sideways against the waves. For every stroke on the left, I paddle twice on the right. The waves aren't big, but they're enough to keep us gripping our paddles tightly as we find our equilibrium in a strange boat in a strange land on a strange sea. We paddle against the wind. The breaking point of the waves doesn't look any closer. But the shore is further away. We paddle until I feel it in my shoulders. If we stop, it seems we blow back toward the shore and the waves rock us more. But the breaking point is getting closer.
We paddle for nearly an hour. Mara uses her boxing muscles and boxing grit as salt water splashes in her eyes with each cycle of the paddle. She reaches her paddle into the water from the front of the boat. It no longer touches the bottom. The water is clear. The bottom looks to be two feet away. But it is probably three meters or more. As we approach the breaking point, the wind picks up. We paddle into the wind and waves to keep the boat stable.
Huge pieces of coral decorate the sea floor beneath us. Mara's paddle can touch. It has gotten shallower. The waves seem smaller from this distance. Hard to imagine they sound so loud a mile away on the shore. But they have the wind's help. And she can be quite a helper when she is on your side. But she is working against us right now.
We rest for a moment, watching the waves as they seem to break for no reason a mile from the shore. But the reef is shallow enough for them to know to break here. Or perhaps the moon tells them to do it in its mysterious messages about the tides. We paddle towards them until it looks that the cresting waves will break in Mara's lap. But each time they roll under us, our nose points down, we dip, and then rise again. We agree to paddle until one of us gets scared. Mara protests that she doesn't want to be the one who sounds the alarm. Reminds me of climbing Mt. Marcy in the unexpected November snow with my two older brothers and how thankful they were that I was the first to volunteer the idea of turning around.
It seems we might even be able to paddle through to the other side of the breaking point. The side of Somali pirates, kangaroos and emus. The waves get bigger as we approach. They look like they are going to crash on us. So, I sweep the oar twice to my right, turning us 180 degrees and saving Mara some face. We paddle away from the break.
We paddle and paddle, but it feels like we are going nowhere. After the resistance of the wind, the oar in the water feels vapid. It's as if the water as no resistance for us to push against. I wonder for a moment if our apparent stillness is from an unseen current or unknown undertow pulling us back towards the breaking waves.
"Following seas," I say, mostly to myself. I remember sailing into Naragansett Bay with Derek two July 3rds ago at the end of one hundred miles and three days of sailing. We had following seas, waves a few feet tall, pushing us forward, rolling under our boat, knocking the keel loudly against sometehing with each wave. It felt like it took forever among graying skies and growing clouds to sail into that bay that day. All beacuse the sea was moving the same direction we were.
"It is because of the following seas," I reassure Mara and myself. We keep paddling. Back into that no man's land where the departure point and the destination both seem to recede towards the horizon. Perhaps this is the point where a trip becomes a journey.
We keep paddling, mostly to prove to ourselves that we are, in fact, moving. And we are. I see a man in a snorkel mask wave both hands in the air several hundred meters ahead. We passed two snorkelers on our way out. I wonder if they are in trouble. We paddle with purpose that direction. As we approach, I recognize Basil. He is snorkeling and swimming, seemingly unaware of our presence.
"You ok?" I ask, as he comes up.
"I was scared," he says, panting. "I saw you paddling past the reef. I forgot to tell you not to go past the breaking waves. The currents there are really strong. It doesn't look like it, but you won't be able to make it back. Once there was a guy from the U.K. who took this boat out there with his girlfriend. He couldn't get back. Finally, they paddled up to the bay five kilometers away. It took until 8 o'clock. I had to go pick them and the boat up in my car."
Mara and I chuckle. "Yeah, we were too scared to paddle past the waves." He offers us a spin with his snorkeling mask. Mara declines. After he reassures me I will be able to get back into the boat without tipping it, I take him up. I put the mask on and jump out of the boat. The water is cool and refreshing. The bottom grassy. I swim around to find patches of coral and sea urchins. It is clear we are no longer at the reef. So I return the mask and climb surprisingly easily back into the boat. We start to paddle away as Basil goes back to snorkeling. With his flippers, he swims almost as quickly as we paddle. He dives under the boat and comes up with a huge red starfish in his hand. It's the size of my head. He shows it off with a smile. I ask him if he has seen the blue starfish. He nods. We paddle off while he returns the starfish to its place on the sea floor and disappears in the torquoise water.
The wind is at our backs. I try lifting our paddle into the wind, but it only spins us around. I realize we need a keel to have a sail. So, I ask Mara to hold her paddle against the wind and I stick mine into the water as a rudder. Occasionally I correct our course with a stroke or two. We approach the shore quickly. As I watch Annette get up from her chair with the camera, I see danger ahead. Pirates! Fortunately, we are close to the shore. And the pirates are under ten years old. One boy boards the front of the boat. Mara hands him the oar. Another climbs on behind me. They corral the boat into shore, welcoming us home from our wild journey to the breaking point.
 |
| Posing monkey. |
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| Seaweed drying in the sun. |
 |
| Boarded by pirates. |
 |
| En route to the breaking point. |
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