1.
Last night, I joined a group of kayakers for a river paddle beneath the nearly full moon. There were about 30 of us, each in our own boat. The nature scene was stunning: wind sent glittering ripples across the dark water, birds sang as they settled into their nests for the night, and the first breath of the coming autumn blanketed us in chilled air.
The group was supported by two skilled guides, one at the front and a “sweep” at the very back. The lead guide promised to share his knowledge of the Mokelumne River as we moved along together as a group.
Alas, for the two-hour trip, it was just me and the sweep. I was so far behind I couldn’t hear the group’s conversations, even in the hushed quiet of the evening. My boat refused to move in a straight line, as though it had imbibed one drink too many. I’d taken a kayaking class on the lake several weeks before this event, but damned if I could recall but a couple of paddling strategies, both of which brought no success on the river. All energy and strength went into correcting my jagged push upstream, making a special effort to avoid fallen tree trunks, thick reeds, and the shallow shoreline.
When I finally caught sight of the other kayakers at the turnaround point, I observed them paddling with apparent ease and experience. My arms felt about ready to drop entirely off my body. An arthritic and bone-weakened left wrist throbbed in pain. Both hands, cramped into paddle pole C shapes, alternated between numbness and sharp contractions. I cried and whined to myself like a child, whispering to the night sky that I was too exhausted to keep going.
I kept going. Periodically, I forced myself to stop the paddling torture, if only for a moment. The kayak drifted where it may as I gazed at the gibbous moon. Clouds had marched across the sky at sunset and la luna’s light shone from behind them or, as they flowed past, from an empty palette all her own. On the trip downstream, the Big Dipper appeared on my right above the stark outlines of riverbank trees.
2.
Challenges are relative. One person’s terror of flying contrasts with another’s bungee jumping or skydiving adrenaline-dopamine binge. A math test for one student may elicit mild nervousness, while another student experiences a full-on panic attack.
But how many of us would give a second thought to, say, drinking a glass of water?
To my brother, everyday tasks are a challenge. After living with him for a few months now, I am taking note of my own miniscule movements that were previously taken for astounding granted: the ability to rise from a chair, to ambulate across a floor, to open a cupboard, to choose a cup without bringing the entire collection crashing down. (Heck, the ability to see the floor, counter edges and dimensions of objects.) To pivot body and head toward faucet. To lift handle, turn knob, push button, or to do whatever we need to do to call forth pouring water. And then, finally, to feel the wash of liquid across our tongues and down our throats. This is something short of a miracle.
There are seemingly countless steps involved in the mundane movements of living a life. Individuals with disease, injuries, and congenital conditions know this all too well.
In its progression, my brother’s MS (multiple sclerosis) now has him wheelchair bound. He can no longer walk, though he is often able to stand up for a couple of minutes at a time with assistance. On good days, he can feed himself with adaptive utensils and bowls, and he can grasp the handle of a cup and take sips of liquids. During an MS flare-up in July, however, he lost his ability to hold and manipulate forks, spoons, and cups, but he has since recovered. MS is a roller coaster.
Still, he grins. He hasn’t lost his teasing sense of humor with his wife - my sister-in-law for the past 52 years - and with me, his little sister. I roll my eyes at his jokes now just as I did when I was a kid. His requests for help are kind and respectful. Although his memory is also injured by MS, he follows up and asks about my adventures outside the home and he remembers milestones in our lives that delight me in their thoughtfulness.
3.
Heading back downstream, I still needed to paddle hard and stay alert to debris and sharp curves in the river. Every bend held hope that the slough and then the lake would present itself at long last. Nope. Another turn, another stretch of river. At one point, I went rogue. My paddles dug into the water with angry, noisy splashes and the kayak rocked back and forth while also moving ahead in fits and starts. I was, essentially, wanting to fist-fight the river with giant plastic spatulas.
Finally, the sweep gracefully led me around the last bend. The lights of the boathouse appeared on the lake. Disembarking, I crawled out of the kayak, stood up on shaking legs, and cautiously walked across the platform toward land. I was soaked, cold, and in this sort of suspended existence, as though I couldn’t quite believe I wasn’t still on the water in that blasted vessel.
Preparing to leave, I thanked my sweep for her patience and attentiveness. She was a lovely young woman who had given me the space to practice paddling, melt down, and drive the kayak on my own from beginning to end. She paddled alongside me modestly and quietly but skillfully.
Then, just as I was leaving, I overheard my sweep talking to a coworker. She said her wrist was beginning to hurt from all the paddling and she was concerned.
Another challenge, I thought, and for someone I presumed was living perfectly in her craft.
4.
In this home, there is no grand assignment of roles. My sister-and-law and I run the household in an ebb and flow manner, while also keeping my brother safe and comfortable. She is ultimately the boss, but I maneuver from sweep to lead guide when she’s overwhelmed and tired.
Nevertheless, my family happily supports my time away from the house for a bit of fun and respite. This morning, when I relayed my story of last night’s kayaking struggles, we had a hearty laugh. My brother shared techniques he used back in the day when he’d paddle his canoe across a lake for hours. It was he and my sister-in-law who taught me how to drive a canoe. I was 10 years old when I plunged my first T-grip paddle into the water.
Kayaks are something else. With their double-blade paddles and their smaller and lighter boat design, they are a new challenge for me.
Just two hours from us, out on the Pacific, there’s an ocean kayaking class being taught next month. Beginners welcome, they say. I think I’ll sign up.
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