I’ve had the best thoughts and conversations while paddleboarding the rivers of California.
June 8, 2013
Cynthia: What are you doing?
Me: Nothing.
Cynthia: You did that last week!
Me: I am not yet finished.
July 14, 2013
There is no such thing as useless junk. A man in the yellow kayak wanted me to taste wild berries freshly harvested from plants growing on the boat.
July 27, 2013
I spent quite a while paddling to escape the strange swirling current where the Sacramento meets the San Joaquin River. I was finally able to ride the waves downwind and cross under the bridge of Hi-way 160. Tide and wind were too strong for me to paddle back to Sherman Island and had to be picked up at Brennan Island. Thank you, cell phone. It was a wonderful day.
July 29, 2013
Cynthia: Where are you going?
Me: Nowhere.
Cynthia: You did that yesterday.
Me: I have not yet arrived.
August 4, 2013
Lost my favorite sunglasses to the deep blue waters of the Sausalito Cove. Check out Neptune’s new pair of shades. The god of the underworld no longer needs to squint when rising from the waters. It was a small price to pay for the privilege of surveying unique house boats, enjoying the hazy silhouette of San Francisco and hanging out with the seals. One medium size seal kept popping his bald dotted head a few yards away from my board then popping out where the other seals were resting under the sun. He must be in-charge of security reporting on the sighting of an unidentified black sea creature standing on water thrusting a strange horn (that’s my Zorro sun hat).
August 10, 2013
Paddleboarding is a slice of life (1).
From Sherman Island, I made the sensible choice to paddle with the current. Yet, even in going with the flow, I still needed to exert precise effort to get to my planned destination. In animated enjoyment of my surroundings, I accidentally drifted to the center of the river where the Sacramento meets the San Joaquin. Caught in the swirling gush where two opposing forces collided; I paddled endlessly in circle. Will the tide change? Or is paddling towards the edge the only way to escape the turbulence?
Crossing under the Hi-Way 160 bridge brings a different reality. The sound of rubber slapping on wooden planks thunders into frightful babbles. Beneath a shroud of a massive steel frame, the mind feigns ghouls of wobbling shadows cast by passing vehicles on choppy waters. From below, the illusion of gloom breeds true misery.
There was no great ecstasy when I reached my target at Brannan Island. The thrill is in the ride. I found myself unable to paddle back as the wind was too strong. No worries, let it go. Save energy and tuck valuable lessons for the next adventure; because just when you think you’ve each the end, the best is yet to come.
August 17, 2013
Paddleboarding is a slice of life (2).
There comes a time when one goes against the tide, whether by choice or by circumstance, to complete the circle of life – to go back to the source. Today, I chose to paddle upwind upon reaching the end of Sherman Island so as not to inconvenience anybody for a pick up and also to face a new challenge.
It was an especially windy day and the rental shop owner foretold of a demanding return trip. Against opposing current, it took double time and effort to trace the reverse route while hugging the island’s fringe for shelter. At times, I took refuge in muddy undergrowth to escape the rushing tide from pushing me back. I found myself in the haven of fish, seal and turtles feeding on algae and plankton. I also held on to reeds for anchor to rest from pounding waves. In stress, we find comfort in unlikely places.
I moved like a slug on oiled glass. Distance was measured using an occasional beach landmark or in billowing seaweeds of distinctive shapes and sizes sprouting at unexpected intervals.
I raced towards Mt. Diablo relishing the majestic image earlier unnoticed. Going back was slow and difficult; though it gave me a second chance to admire what, in my haste to move forward, I missed in full sight. How many other treasures have I passed over?
The final push of my return was to cross the span of the river away from the island’s protective edge. I breathe deeply then shoved against a fallen tree trunk for momentum. I stabbed at raging waters for precious inches closer to the other side. There was no stopping or thinking; only a primal urge to come home. Though humble in comparison; in my mind, I was Hemingway’s character in a battle against great odds.