[This is the second episode in the Bainbridge to Bellingham or Bust series, edited from journals written prior to and during a solo kayak trip undertaken June 2014, from Bainbridge Island to Bellingham.]
who dreams, of
the fruition of dreams,
prepares,
perspiring over papyrus
accruing filthy lucre,
for the way
forward.
< : June 10, 2015 : Ketchikan, Alaska : >
The day draws nearer. With preliminary tasks complete, the passing of each hour is a wisping away of time during which uncertainties may spring forth. Many events must yet take place and I am in no wise fully ready. One is never ready for what is to be undertaken, in that additional preparation always exists. A bit of trade-off to live a life of actions, and not solely a preparatory existence.
Longing for a place amidst the waves sparks wonder at all I do not know, a hope that the knowledge and supplies acquired at launch-date will be sufficient, along with enough wisdom to make choices which keep me above those waves, while granting another day in which to make more choices.
In addition to the practical tasks, preparation includes collecting and sorting thoughts to ruminate upon during the soon coming solitude, thoughts of my own and those of others. This packaging of supplies for ensuing mental needs bears much the same intent as these clipped pages from the Coastal Pilot – to inform how others have perceived the landscape I hope soon to be traveling over.
A woman sailing the world in her sloop, Jen Buttery, wrote “like a translator interpreting a work and projecting themselves all over the result, wittingly or un, sometimes we see mostly what we bring to a place and learn most from the memories it evokes.” With this thought in mind, one repetitive preparatory step involves an emptying and expanding to make way for what is soon coming.
Last night, Mary surprised me with a going away celebration, folks slow-clapping our arrival, cupcakes glittering with the color of the sea and emblazoned with the phrase “Bellingham or Bilge Pump”, and a sign spelling out “HAPPY PADDLING.” Despite knowing something was afoot, the grandeur of the gesture was plenty surprising. Forgot about worries of the trip under the spell of good conversation, tasty brews and delicious frosted, lettered brownies.
On this the final day in Alaska before journeying south, I awoke as the sky was just lightening, blushing blues blandishing the edges of black. The clock confirmed earliness of the hour – three:am. No call of nature sings out, no one else snoring, no bright sun shining. Just another sneaky punch in the gut from the nerves resonating within is all, a test of resolve. Or in more ominous terms, it is an intestinal awareness of the impending path my choices have summoned me to follow. Hark all ye who enter in, that fools go where angels dare not tread!
An uneasiness washes over my frame in those moments of ill-feeling, like seafarers of old must have known when the Jolly Roger hove into view, a feeling that portends of doom and failure. When those nerves jingle-jangle, I steel myself for the upsets that must beset any expedition, for otherwise would be simply a rehearsal; give attention to reactions; practice patience; invite the spirit of a young tree bending in the wind into this journey, where what does not bend must surely break.
No comments:
Post a Comment