Tide, Feather, Snow_ A Life in Alaska - Miranda Weiss [47]
“Are you okay to keep going?” John asked, his voice raised over the sounds of engine and wind. More than anything, I wanted to climb aboard the skiff, and put a thick hull and fast engine between me and this rolling sea. I wanted to be on dry land. I wanted to be done with it. I knew that if I told John I was too scared to continue, he would call the man over. But he didn’t seem nervous and I didn’t want to be the one to make us bail out. The man’s concern should have confirmed my fear. Instead, I trusted John’s calmness. And if I couldn’t force myself to keep going, how could I hope to chip away at my fear? I wanted to be rescued but I couldn’t say so. I needed John to read me as carefully as he set about reading the sea.
“Sure, let’s keep going.” The wind blew the words off as soon as they left my mouth.
“We’re okay,” John shouted back to the man in the skiff.
The boat sped off. We were alone again. The noise of the skiff’s idling engine had been a comfort; now it was gone. I paddled as hard as I could and with each stroke felt the weight of the water against the blade. Damp all over from sweat and salt water splashing against our hull, I stared straight ahead at the closest point of land. Mindlessly, I began counting my strokes. One, two, three, four. It kept me focused. I didn’t know what John’s pace was in the stern and I didn’t care. We were moving in too many directions at once: forward then pulled back, buoyed up and then dropped, spun right then pushed left. I squinted at the land ahead and gauged our progress against points on shore. Slowly the south shore of the bay came into focus.
The crossing took us nearly twice as long as it would have in flat water. By the time we reached the other side, we’d given up plans to paddle up a fjord to a campsite we’d located on the map. Instead, we headed over to a nearby gravel beach and got out of the boat. We lifted the bow onto the beach so that the kayak wouldn’t drift away. We exchanged few words as we opened the hatches and unpacked, carrying the gear up above the high tide line. The tide would peak around midnight, and we needed to make sure that everything was safely stowed. Then we carried the boat—John at the stern, me at the bow—into grass above the high-tide line. We would pitch a tent next to it for the night.
“I hated that,” was all I could say as I slumped onto the cobbles, feeling the tension in my body beginning to let go for the first time since we’d landed. “Yeah, that wasn’t much fun,” John agreed. I was relieved that he had been uncomfortable too, but I wanted to scream, why did we do this? Couldn’t you see I was terrified? But I didn’t. John sat down next to me and put his arm around my shoulders. As waves drained down the beach, they raked the cobbles against each other, making a loud but calming sound. We were finally on land. In two days, we would have to make the crossing again, heading home. My stomach would be uneasy until we were back on the other side of the bay.
The weight of John’s arm—it wasn’t enough to comfort me. It never would be. I needed to learn to trust my own fear, to let myself be terrified. I needed to remember that fear helps keep people alive. I thought of my beautiful kayak back home. Would the way it held me so carefully, so specifically, give me the confidence I lacked? Or would it gather dust? There weren’t many weeks left of summer to figure it out. It would take a year before the answers to those questions became clear, but much longer to realize that it was too easy to pick up a man’s dream, his measure of the world, rather than fashion one of my own.
7
FALL
VIGIA: n. A rock or shoal the position of which is doubtful, or a warning note to this effect on the chart.
Fall