By: Elizabeth Redhead Kriston
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| Yellow Creek, PA Photo by: Liz Kriston |
As I glided through the morning mist, the sun started to rise
higher into the sky drawing the steam up to join it revealing the glassy
surface of the lake. In the warming morning, the brilliant blue dome above me
was dotted with white puffy clouds, the kind that beckon you on lazy Summer
days to lie back on a grassy knoll as you imagine them to be animals,
locomotives, and presidential silhouettes. The smooth water below my boat
reflected the brilliant sky making it appear infinite.
No others shared the lake with me that perfect July morning except
for the birds that stirred on the shoreline making their calls in song to one
another, and a deer sipping tenuously from the water’s edge. As my paddle
sliced into the still waters, I propelled forward in an effortless glide.
Immersed in that moment in time, my gaze fixated on the sky below, I felt as if
I was flying.
Mesmerized by the sensation of flight and the beauty around me, I
continued my journey across the lake grateful for my good fortune at
discovering this amazing experience of kayaking. I came to the sport at an age
when most are hanging up their hiking shoes, rubbing Tiger Balm into sore
muscles, and plucking gray hairs from their aging heads.
I have always been drawn to the water. Water brings me a sense of
calm and peace I experience nowhere else. Water fills me with joy.
My love for water was nurtured during long lazy summers spent on
the wooded property on which my grandmother lived. A swimming hole sat below
the house at the bottom of a that grassy knoll where I learned to gaze at
clouds.
As I got older, Grandma loved to reminisce with me about the days
when I, still in diapers, would arrive for my Summer visits leaping from my
mother’s car as soon as she slowed in the gravel driveway. I dashed as fast as
my chubby toddler legs would take me down the steep hill to the pond where I
gleefully dove into the chilly water. Breathless, from the exertion and her
laughter, Grandma would yank me out by my diaper scolding me in an attempt to
conceal her amusement at my drive to be submerged in the cool, spring-fed pond.
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| My Grandma walking another baby from the pond |
For years, I spent every summer submerged in that same pond from
sunrise to sunset. The family referred to me as a “fish.” By Summer’s end, my
eyes and nose glowed red from the hours I spent in the sunshine exploring the
underwater world of that pond sans goggles. I chased fish, turtles, and
inevitably, my cousins in games of underwater tag.
The water, and the sensory deprivation I experienced being
immersed within it, created a much-needed refuge. My childhood, like many, was
not always a happy one thanks to the turmoil of my home-life. The only place I
ever felt completely at peace was in the water.
My childhood memories overflow with the time I spent swimming in,
floating on, and lounging near that pond. Water became synonymous with my
definition of Summer. I never fully recovered from the devastating loss of my
water refuge when, without warning, my grandparents were forced to move.
Overtime, my life evolved. My unhappy childhood became a happy
adult life, but even the happiest adult has stress. I searched to find that
sense of calm and peace that that pond from my childhood instilled. I visited
local lakes or traveled thousands of miles to gaze at and breathe in an ocean.
These trips to water’s edge always lowered my blood pressure. With my stress
released, I slept soundly, like the baby I used to be wrapped in my grandma’s
arms and nestled into her substantial bosom.
Being near water was mildly therapeutic, but I needed to be
on it. Diving-in was tempting, but not always practical. Visions of me
floating on the calm waters as I paddled a boat across the glimmering surface
became commonplace. I considered kayaking as a way to bring me close to the
water again.
A friend introduced me to kayaking on a girls’ getaway. We rented
uncomfortable boats and wrapped ourselves in used life vests infused with the
odors of sweaty tourists. Despite my discomfort and the assault to my olfactory
senses, I experienced an immediate feeling of joy. I felt like that young
“fish” I once was.
My husband bought me a kayak for Christmas that year. I spent the
Winter sitting inside of it on the basement floor pretending the cement to be
the still waters of a lake, longing for Spring so I could go for a float. Once
the ice melted in the warming days and nights of Spring, I took my first solo
paddle. I arrived at the lake feeling overwhelmed by life, excited to no longer
be confined to my house.
Feeling a bit nervous, I launched my boat onto the vast body of
water of the local state park. As I glided out away from the boat ramp and into
the center of the lake, my nerves and stress evaporated a little more with each
dip and pull of my paddle.
I discovered tiny inlets that the motor boats could not enter. I
sat still allowing all of my senses to take in the smells, sounds, and sights
of the quiet cove. I watched schools of minnows being chased by a bass under my
boat. I glimpse the intense hues of the wildflowers of Spring that dotted the
shore. I heard the song birds as they mated and built nests.
Surrounded by water, I finally felt like that little girl who
found happiness in the pond at her grandma’s. All the stress of my life
disappeared. I felt calm yet invigorated.
Now my Summer mornings often start with me
launching my boat onto the misty calm waters of dawn. In those glorious minutes
that I allow myself to indulge in the feeling of joy that the water brings me,
I recall my grandma’s laughter and the feeling of safety and love that her
embrace filled me with. I allow myself to fill-up with joy and to feel
empowered to face whatever life has in store for me. When I paddle back to shore
and load my boat preparing for the trip back home, I feel strong and daring
just like the toddler I used to be all those Summers ago.
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