Healing: One Paddle at a Time

It was July 2020 when, for the first time in a decade or so, I tentatively (and not at all graciously, I must admit) lowered myself from a dock into the rear seat of a tandem kayak, floating on the grimy depths of the Limehouse Basin, East London. It was my housemate’s idea. We had spent most of the previous months barricaded in the house as Covid-19 sieged the city, and were grateful for this opportunity to spend some quality time out in the sun in the steadily re-opening world.

Covid wasn’t the only reason my own personal world had been turned upside down in recent months. The year had begun with the definitive end to a two and a half year complicated, crushing, confusing relationship-that-wasn’t-a-relationship. 99% of the time I felt peaceful about it, 1% of the time the remnants still managed to crush and confuse me. Recent weeks had seen the vocational goal I’d been working tirelessly towards for the last two years, putting my entire life and heart and soul into, ripped away at the penultimate hurdle — for reasons that were completely unjust.

I felt rudderless.

As my sweet housemate and friend — with a little more decorum — joined me in the vessel and we made our way out of the marina and into the canal, I felt much of the anxiety I’d previously felt about kayaking disappear. It was a beautiful summer’s day and the water was calm. We navigated the canal with ease, waving to folk on narrow boats and sharing a friendly greeting with paddlers we passed by, stopping for photo opportunities every so often. Eventually, we made our way back towards the basin, and only upon my feet touching solid ground did I realise: for the past hour or so, I’d not been wearing as heavily the weight of tension and hurt and uncertainty that had so closely docked itself onto my shoulders lately.

The next week, on the day I was set to return home for the summer, we went out again. This time, it was to a local sailing club where the only kayaks available for civvies without certificates to rent were sit-ons. The irony, of course, being that sit-on’s are much, much easier to capsize than sit-in’s. They are, admittedly, much easier to flip and re-enter though. This excursion proved to be not as successful. Within ten minutes or so, I’d capsized the kayak, hadn’t been able to re-enter, and had to be rescued by my housemate and two very chivalrous passers-by. I’m a strong swimmer, but the water had been colder than I’d anticipated, and the shock of it made it very hard to breathe. Anyway, an incredibly wet and cold bus ride home, a shower, and a hot chocolate later, and I was ready to hit the paddle again —

Despite the near death experience.

I’ve always loved water. For as long as I can remember, being in water — particularly the ocean — has been where I’ve felt closest to peace, closest to nature, closest to sanctuary. Many others have told me they feel the same way. Whatever sanctuary means to them; water is where it becomes most tangible.

Over the remainder of the summer, I ooh’d and ahh’d a few times before deciding to buy a sit-in kayak of my own. In the long run, it was a much better financial option than renting one by the hour.

And I think that’s where the real journey to healing began.

Maybe it’s the motion. There’s something almost spiritual about being cot in the gentle sway of a current, rocked as if a child and fully succumb to perhaps the greatest force in nature there is. You are in control to an extent, of course. You are safe, of course. But the smallness of the self is really amplified by the knowledge that you’re not totally in control. The wind could change, a storm could come, there are a number of factors beyond your choosing that could alter your course. But even if you change your course, it’ll be okay. There will be another adventure, you might even have to wait another day or another week before it’s yours, but it’s okay. It’s good to be reminded of that, and sometimes it’s good to be reminded of our own smallness; of our inability to weather every storm by ourselves.

Maybe it’s the sounds. So many people find the sound of moving water relaxing and use it as a source of white noise. It’s that crispness as the water is broken and the gushing sound as it’s scooped underneath a paddle that — even if it’s strenuous — seems to calm me and still me. There are usually birds around too, chattering and whistling away. Often in a more wooded area, the wind will blow through the trees and create a shimmying sound as the leaves all dance together. That’s something I miss during the winter, when the trees are bare. The sounds of nature have a similar sort of effect; they give perspective. They remind us of what else there is, of all the serenity and beauty we miss when we only look inwards at our lives and our stresses and our fears. Kayaking, you’re always looking out. You’re always listening. You’re hearing what you wouldn’t normally hear.

Maybe it’s the physical labour. Though, like many, the attraction of kayaking is to me the idea of adventure; there’s something reassuring about the repetitive and rhythmic nature — and, frankly, the monotony — of paddling. Once you know how to paddle, not much thought really goes into it. I think this sort of movement helps you to get out of your head a little bit, into an almost trancelike or meditative state. It’s like yoga, but on water.

It’s a combination of all these things that has made kayaking such an important part of my emotional and spiritual healing. It requires just the right amount of physical excursion, just the right amount of concentration, just the right amount of courage. It takes you from earthly realms of work and commitments and responsibilities and thrusts you, just for a while at least, into watery pastures of calm; juxtaposing activeness and restfulness.

It’s really worth a try.