How to Avoid Drowning While Getting Your Groove Back
If you’ve read Chicken Mom and The Big Eddy, then you already know I’m not a risk-taker. You need to understand from the start; this is not the story of two great adventurers. This is the story of two middle-aged idiots trying not to drown.
I fully admit it; I’m not the outdoorsy type. I don’t camp, snowboard, or rock climb. Honestly, a brisk walk to the mailbox, and I’m done for the day. I took in some fresh air and sunshine, saw a squirrel. I’m good. And please don’t ask me to go anywhere late at night. God turned out the lights for a reason; he wants us to sleep! I’m with God on this one.
In my twenties, I was more of a thrill-seeker, but parenthood changes you. When you’re face to face with three crying, pooping snot monkeys all day, it’ll knock the adventure clean out of you. No more disco nights, say goodbye to the miniskirt and heels, forget mascara and lipstick. Eventually, even showers become a distant memory.
Now that our sons are in their twenties and less likely to vomit on us, my husband and I felt ready for a little more adventure. That adventure would come in the form of kayaking. It didn’t seem too risky; we’d be kayaking in a relatively calm bay, separated from the Pacific Ocean by a sandspit roughly five miles long.
We’d heard horror stories of kayakers being carried out past the sandspit and into the ocean, but that wouldn’t happen to us. Nope! We’d be smart; we’d have rules. We’d always kayak together, at high tide with life jackets — at least that was the plan.
On this particular day, we forgot the plan. Maybe it was because I’d been sidelined in a cast for six weeks, anxious to make up for lost time. Swept up in the moment, we were in a hurry and failed to observe one of our most essential rules; always double-check the tide tables.
Tables-shmables!
It was a warm and windless fall afternoon, perfect kayaking weather. The bay was flat as glass; the light reflected on the water like diamonds in the late afternoon sun. Visiting pelicans soared overhead, and harbor seals bobbed beside our kayaks as we made our way across the bay — total bliss.
“Let’s get closer to the shoal,” My husband suggested as we approached the mouth of the bay. I was nervous about getting too close to the ocean, but my husband was certain it was high tide. As long as we didn’t go past the end of the sandspit, we’d be safe. But the tide wasn’t coming in; it was going out. A fact we were oblivious to as we paddled westward toward the tip of the sandspit, and beyond it, the crashing waves of the Pacific Ocean.
As the current grew stronger and we edged closer to the breakers, our kayaks bobbed like corks in the open water. A feeling of unease began to unfurl in the pit of my stomach. Something wasn’t right. The once distant breakers suddenly seemed too close.
I checked our starboard position and saw we’d unknowingly swept past the beach. I checked portside and to my horror, realized we had sailed beyond the sandspit. One minute we were safely traversing the bay, and the next, we’d been pulled out to sea. The current was too strong and swift, and our perspective skewed. We were in trouble, and it had happened in an instant.
“We’re too far out, turn back!” I called to my husband. We weren’t just near the breakers; they were bearing down upon us. I heard my husband let out a whoop and turned in time to see him riding the crest of a wave surfboard style.
The situation was not good. On my list of not good stuff being swept out to sea in a tiny bubble of cheap plastic was at the very top. Bloody hell! I turned around and began to paddle faster.
Almost on cue, the sun retreated behind the clouds, and the once calm blue bay became grey, harsh, and threatening. We were battling increasingly heavy swells, and I had to put my back into it. My arms ached with the effort as the currents repeatedly swept us backward.
I glanced over my shoulder at my husband, now far behind me. “Keep going!” I yelled over the roar of the surf. I worried we wouldn’t make it back into the bay but quickly pushed aside my fear. I had to stay focused on rowing and forward momentum. I turned toward the beach with a new goal; get to shore and get the hell out of the water. NOW!
I chastised myself for my earlier hubris and cavalier attitude. Where had my healthy respect for the ocean gone? Why didn’t we take kayak lessons as my husband had suggested? What if it had been my sons in this situation? The grim totality of my poor decisions made my gut churn as wave after wave slammed into my kayak, pushing me back from shore. I waited for an opening between breakers and with all my strength, drove toward the beach.
Pulling my kayak safely away from the surf, I checked my husband’s status. He was still too far out. I paced the beach, watching him tread water in his kayak. From my vantage point, I could see that the tide was clearly on it’s way out, and taking my husband with it.
Frantically I waved my husband toward shore. “The current’s too strong, come IN!” I yelled. Seemingly oblivious to my pleas, he continued doggedly paddling in place.
Then I remembered my phone. At the last minute, I’d decided to take it. The one right decision I’d made that day! I quickly found the drybag in my kayak and with shaking hands, pulled out my phone.
Prepared to dial 911, I paced the beach gripping my cell phone. This is how I’m going to lose him, I thought. The father of my sons, my partner of 33 years, was going to perish in front of me as I stood helplessly on the beach.
To my great relief, my husband finally pointed his kayak toward the shore and after several attempts, slid between breakers and onto the beach. I grabbed the carry handle on the bow of his kayak and held tight as he climbed out.
“I could swear it’s high tide,” my husband said, his eyes widening as he took in the fast-moving currents. “Can you check?” I opened the tide app on my phone, and we both stared in disbelief. It was almost low tide.
We had no other choice than to drag our kayaks down the beach until we reached somewhat calmer waters, and could safely paddle toward home and a very large gin and tonic.
My husband blamed himself for misreading the tide app. But it wasn’t solely his responsibility; it was mine too. From that day on, we would always double-check the tide table.
I learned the stark truth about self-reliance that day, alone in my kayak, battling the ocean. I couldn’t save my husband any more than he could save me. We were in it alone with no one to rely upon but ourselves. That’s life; you might choose a partner to share it with, but when the tides turn, you each have to row your own boat.
The following week I had to explain my swollen ankle to my physical therapist. “Let me get this straight,” she said, gently prodding my foot with her index finger. “You got your cast off, and two days later you went kayaking? You are an adventurous one!” She couldn’t see the grin spread across my face. I’ve been called a lot of things in my fifty-something years, but adventurous? That was new.
Suddenly I was thrust back in time to my twenties, all big 80’s hair and rock ’n’ roll attitude. Maybe there’s still a little of that wild child deep inside, hiding under the grey hair, sweatpants, and comfort-sole shoes. All she needs is a little coaxing (and a current tide table) to get back in the game. “Yep,” I said, unable to suppress my amusement. “I am one wild woman.”
