| The Kayak Lesson |
by Kathe Kokolias
 The kayaks sat on the wet sand just out of range of the barely breaking surf. I stood staring down at mine - the variegated blue one that bore my initials but that I had yet to ride.
”I’ll show you how to get into it”, Brian, said, leaning on his paddle. He led his kayak into the shallows of Zihuatanejo Bay, the warm water slapping around his legs.
”Bring it out here ‘til you’re just about knee deep”, Brian instructed. “Hold your paddle in your left hand, reach over to the handle on the right side to steady it, and plop yourself down.”
With each step, he demonstrated how to get into the ride-on kayak. He made it look so easy. I studied him , my husband of nearly twenty years who taught me to fly fish, to play golf. Always the patient teacher, he gave information only when he sensed I was ready to receive it. I had no reason to doubt him. I had, in fact, trusted him enough to move to this village on the Pacific coast of Mexico, a land of infinite sunshine with a sheltered bay perfect for kayaking - the place we fondly call Paradise.
The kayak followed me into the bay like a reluctant puppy on a leash. I did as I was shown and sat down, my bottom flopping into the molded seat, positioned my feet into the formed footrests, and dipped the paddle in the water mimicking Brian. With each stroke the kayak shot through the building waves.
He called out, “Try to keep your arms below shoulder level so you don’t get tired. It’s a push motion more than a pull.”
I mirrored his movements and the kayak responded, skimming through the water like a dolphin dashing to catch up with its friends. Over the next hour, Brian showed me how to turn, how far into the water to dip my paddle for a more efficient stroke, and how to alter my grip so my hands wouldn’t cramp. Little by little - poco a poco - I was learning to kayak.
We paddled past sailboats anchored in the bay, startling people for we made no sound until we called out “bueños dias” and they’d wave back. A water taxi loaded with tourists barreled across our path, en route to Las Gatas, the isolated beach just inside the point on the south end of the bay.
”Slow down,” Brian cautioned, “because he won’t.”
We aimed our kayaks toward the craggy point where the surf cascaded over jagged black rocks, white foam shooting into the air.
”That’s close enough,” Brian said, and we turned our backs to the surge and rode the waves back toward the beach, surfers on a long smooth ride.
I found myself smiling - “I love this!” I said out loud. Why did I resist so long? Ten yards ahead of me, a leatherback turtle raised its hefty head like a periscope on a submarine, caught me in its sight and gave me a long look, as if trying to figure out what I was - half human, half boat - a strange sort of centaur? It vanished and then, several seconds later, the turtle popped back up, stared at me for a few moments and disappeared once again. The third time it surfaced, I yelled to Brian,
“See that turtle? It’s huge!” sending the creature back to its underwater home.
A few hundred yards offshore, we passed through a sea of jellyfish floating toward the beach on the incoming tide - each translucent body with a pink center pulsating like a heart.
I paddled toward the beach but just before touching the shore, a wave turned the kayak sideways and I tumbled out. Several hotel guests who were having breakfast under the palapas stood and cheered as I regained my footing, and pulled the kayak onto the sand, embarrassed but victorious.
And so my passion for kayaking was launched. Gliding over sleek water, feeling the power of my stroke, the boat responded to my slightest movement like an attentive lover. In the early morning stillness before the world was fully awake, in the hours before the wind kicked up, I’d paddle around the bay looking for the spotted eagle ray I’d seen the week before, stopping to chat with the yachters, watching the cruise ship that dropped anchor once a week, sending its passengers to shore in dingies for a day of shopping.
When the bay was as smooth as the back of a colossal whale, I’d venture beyond the point at Las Gatas out into the open ocean. I spoke to the budding breeze that brushed my skin, “Only a few thousand miles and I could be - where? Hawaii? Australia? I should look at a map. I don’t even have a bottle of water. Guess I’ll have to turn back.”
I drift along in my kayak, paddle resting across my lap and look toward the palm lined bay, the houses and hotels carved out of the green hillside, the place that has become my home. From this perspective it is truly Paradise.
Kathe Kokolias lives in upstate New York & Ixtapa. She is writing a book about here experiences living in Mexico. Brian Roach lives in Ixtapa. He leads birdwatchers and adventure-seekers on kayak tours in the Lagoon at Potosi. he can be contacted at Zoe5@aol.com or 553-0496.
March 2004 |
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