Wayfinding in Wildwood

“Does anyone know how many knots it takes for wind to make a white cap?”

It’s 7 am on a windy, cloudy day. I’m standing in the sand with a group of seven strangers in front of the team leader.

He scans seven faces for an answer only to find seven different expressions for, not a clue.

“It’s 12.” He says in a half apologetic, half reassuring way. I quickly realized this lesson is to gear us up for a rocky ride.

He went on.

“It’s sitting just under that out there today so, kind of the most spicey morning we’ve gone out in so far this summer.”

Great.

“Still, the surf is small, and we’ve got two great teams. Let’s get the boats to the shoreline.”

As I struggled to help carry the nearly 400-pound canoe 100 yards to the sea, I embraced my situation. With zero experience, exposure, or understanding of the sport, I fell in with the new WildIsle Outrigger Canoe Club for their morning paddle. Besides the two-minute demonstration on effective paddle form, I was going into the ocean blind. I had no idea how far they planned to go, how strenuous this would be, or if I was destined to get wet. The woman next to me smartly wore one of the newer and sleeker, inflatable lifejackets on her waistline… just in case.

Shit.

Why did I get myself into this early morning initiation? Mostly because I’m a crazy person who is getting cabin fever at home all day with two babies, but in simple truth, I was attracted to going out ON the ocean instead of swimming IN it, and, I felt capable enough to try.

That was until about the 200th of the 300 yards that it took to carry the canoe to the waterline. There wasn’t a way to ask for a break, especially if I wanted to pretend to be an asset on the water.

I held my breath until the end, shifting my hold on the ama.

The ama, as I quickly learned, is the huge “arm” that extends out the port side of the canoe for stability. It’s long and pointed at the bottom, like the V of a boat’s hull. Mostly it looked like a chief piece of equipment to avoid getting smacked by in the case of falling in. Casually on our way out, the team told me that if it lifts too high off the water we may “huli huli.” I didn’t need to be Hawaiian to know that that meant flip.

“If it happens, no worries, we’ll just upright her and bail it out.”

In my head, I could visualize about seven steps of instructions missing between those bookend experiences of a capsized boat, but instead, I gave the team my trust and swallowed my questions.

The man who organizes the club is referred to around town as a “true waterman,” a title that I felt slightly envious about. I heard that he returned to the area for love, bringing back his experience from time spent in Hawaii with him. Now, Ronnie expertly reads, feels, and steers through the tides on this Polynesian style of canoe; two of them, to be exact. The ocean is obviously his passion, and I felt a small sense of ease as he assigned me the seat on the boat directly in front of him. The team of eight broke into two and prepared the boats.

After push-starting our boat through small waves and an awkward sandbar current, Ronnie the steersman hopped into the canoe and things were off! As directed, everyone paddled on the same side of the boat to work against the shore bound waves. Briefly caught in the negative space between forming waves, I could tell that we weren’t operating at full paddle power.

“Is this the least amount of people you’d want to handle the canoe?” I half hollered over my shoulder when things got calm.

“Oh yeah,” he said, making my insides clamp down on any fleeting willpower. What a day for my first attempt.

I had clear feedback on my paddle form and Ronnie’s encouragement in my ear was a welcome sound as we left the shore. Once our team splashed over the final sets, we broke off into our alternating paddle assignments to build speed for the open water. My job was to match the paddle pace and location of the man sitting in the first seat of our canoe. I was not to watch the woman behind that front seat, her stroke was matched only by steersman behind me. Together the four of us danced like this, balancing the boat and managing the waves while working to the sounds of foreign cues.

“Hoe Hapai”

“Huki”

“Lawa”

I felt like I was in a yoga class, moving cautiously amidst the Sanskrit names of poses and looking to other students to mimic the flow. After stumbling late to 2-3 poses, everyone figures out what response is expected.

“Hut, Hike!”

About every 12 paddles, we switched hands to paddle on the opposite side of the boat after the call of, “Hut!” The regular members yelled back full tribal hype, “Hike!” I stayed quiet however, feeling like an imposter that needed to earn my chants…perhaps on my second paddle out.

Passing the crew, a row of three grey and graceful pelicans flew in a line overhead. The fourth bird, however, was a stubborn and unimpressive seagull tagging along. Seems like I’m not the only imposter out here, I thought to myself while working. I stole one more glance. The commanding presence of the pelicans didn’t seem altered by the gull at the end of their formation. It gave me the sense that if it could keep up, the team would be happy to oblige the company. I smiled and buckled down on my stroke.

I fell into a good pattern as we moved north along the shoreline, enough to quickly glance around and soak in what I was seeing. I’ve never really been that far offshore from the beaches I so familiarly lived on. I was past the surf sets, past the common line of dolphin pods and their acrobatics, past the comfortable “swim back in” distance of my morning group swims. As if Ronnie could sense my recognition of a new life achievement, he said “this is why I started the club, to give offshore access to people who want it but didn’t want to be a lifeguard.” I knew exactly what he meant.

It’s one of the reasons I didn’t learn to athletically swim until adulthood; only lifeguards were allowed out past your chest in the waves, past where an adult could touch. Before the canoe club, only lifeguards in their row boats got to sit within this view, this lane of connection with the island. Anything past this depth was understood to be for motorboats and tourist’s dolphin watches; We were paddling in the sweet spot.

Despite the full headwind on the first half, and the constant pattern of…climb-a-wave, fall-down-its-back on the return… I felt so tuned in. Behind me Ronnie laughed about the chop, “this is the Hawaiian roller coasta’ ride.” The team hooted and hollered back their appreciation.

No one on the boat knew how much this slice of oceanic freedom meant to me. They couldn’t tell I had an 8-month-old at home, that I had to breastfeed her before racing to be here, that I rarely had free time to myself, or that I hadn’t slept a real night of sleep for over a year.

Out there, it didn’t matter. Only our breath, our paddle strokes, our obvious interest in the sea, and our commitment to listen to the steersman did.

Besides the obvious endurance needed to stroke about once every two seconds…for an hour… the hardest part for me was to let Ronnie lead.

I asked him questions when able, about what he was looking for within the tides, and found myself wanting to help turn the boat with my paddle when it was time. Like a paddle board, a still oar can direct and redirect the current of the water to help your turn. But that wasn’t my job. I was there to be a paddling minion, a worker bee only.

“You looking to turn towards or away from the shore?”

“Away,” he said laughing. “You ask like you want to be a steersman.”

No, I thought, I’m just a control freak.  “No, haha, I’m just learning a lot about boats this summer.”

“Well,” he called back, “this is quite the unique experience for a first season of boats.”

And how right he was. A pod of dolphins broke the surface on our way back into shore, dampening my anxiety about our final ride in. An audible came out of my smiling gape when one of their babies popped out in a little airborne dive. It was so cute, it didn’t look real; I was ready to be on land again and victoriously hug my own aging infant.

But first we had to land. All eyes and ears were ready for our final orders, Ronnie had us back row a few times to perfect our position in the building sets. Without knowing the calls or what it takes to maneuver this large boat, I could sense the pressure he was waiting for; the right moment between resistance and give... the portal of potential.

“Pull!” He urged for a final effort of paddling in rhythm.

With anything I had left, I worked as I felt the back of the canoe lift, pushing us forward and up. So powerful yet so subtle, we were not in control of the water. Instead, were given access to moving with it.

Ronnie pointed the boat at an angle with the wave to keep us crested, rising to shift his own weight over the side if things started to build inappropriately. I fought the urge to help but failed, instinctively leaning toward the high side of the canoe as I paddled from that crooked position. By the time the canoe did in fact turn parallel to the beach (a big wave problem), we were safely to shore and out of any danger from being flipped by the foamy, final shallows.

As much as I loved this first canoeing experience, I also loved getting out of it. As my feet recalibrated to the resistance of sand, the team pushed the canoe to the waterline until everything stuck. Fist bumps and “great paddle’s” were tossed around. There was no shortage of compliments, encouragements, and questions about my life as we cleaned up.

The prepared woman with the lifejacket said, “I’m so glad you came, now your husband needs to try!”

“I know,” I joked. “We have to do everything in shifts now with two kids.”

“Oh of course, but good for you for starting, it’s so important at that stage to have something for yourself.”

She is wise as she is beautiful. I swallowed in recognition of a deep truth and nodded in agreement.

On the walk back, I could tell this community of people had a special awareness about them; how they jumped into action without orders or requests to maneuver the heavy boats to the back beach. Within them, I recognized my own ability to anticipate the needs of those around me and how often I used the skill at home. I sighed, feeling the weight of responsibility returning to my chest as I approached the dunes.

I exchanged a mother’s inner conundrum between breaths…

Inhale… pleasure in managing the home.

Exhale…wanting to escape it.

Inhale… craving community.

Exhale…avoiding it to create the illusion of control.

But by briefly interacting with strangers that morning, in a synchronized way, I embraced the power of unique experiences like the canoe club. Instead of draining you, it’s an activity that rewards your physical efforts with better connection and encourages more of these little commitments to selfishness: Singularity to develop unity.

I waved goodbye to the team and with one final glance at the mounting waves and wind, smiled before returning to my family. After a morning like this, my daily duties didn’t seem daunting. I felt energized and eager to share my experience with my young children. Mostly, I couldn’t wait to tell my three-year-old that “I am Moana.”

All pictures are some that I took from my husband’s first paddle with the club! He loved it!