Whenever people ask me if I would like to try kayaking, I have a simple answer: No way.
Somehow the idea of paddling through ice-cold water over rocks in a boat that could flip over with my legs jammed into it doesn’t appeal to me.
I know you can learn to do the Eskimo roll thing in a pool. But for some reason, all I can think of is that scene from “An Officer and a Gentleman” when, during flight-school training, they are catapulted into a pool in these little cages to simulate what it would be like to crash their planes into the water. One of the students panics and nearly drowns because of it. That’s how I imagine I would be with my legs pinned in one of those little boats, all zipped in like that, with only an oar to maneuver my way to the surface.
Still, I can’t help but feel left out. Especially now, when the rivers are raging and talking about the raging rivers is all the rage, so to speak. People just love spewing boating lingo. It’s all about cubic centimeters this and Class IV that, or how so-and-so ran some section of the river that has a scary name like Slaughterhouse or Meat Grinder. It’s a level of enthusiasm I can’t say I share when I talk about hiking Smuggler or going for a run along the gravel bike path of the East Aspen Trail.
I live on the high banks of the Roaring Fork River near Aspen, and when the water’s high, it’s loud enough to hear during the quiet hours of night. The sound of rushing water taunts me, making its presence known. It’s constant but impossible to discern, like a muffled conversation in the next room. I can hear the voices, but I have no idea what they’re saying. It’s like being kept up all night by a party you weren’t invited to.
During the day, it’s even worse. Every afternoon, I run along the banks of the river on the Rio Grande trail and see the kayakers in their colorful boats. I hear them hooting and hollering as they make it through tricky sections. It reminds me of being on the mountain and taking turns snowboarding untracked powder, whooping and cheering on each other. I know I’m missing out.
All of a sudden, it seems like every other car has a boat strapped to the roof, en route to some adventure or good time that doesn’t include me. Every house I visit has boats propped up outside on the porch with plastic crates filled with all kinds of neoprene and pieces of equipment I can’t identify. Coffee tables are littered with river guidebooks and paddle magazines, televisions stacked with what my friend Rob calls “paddle porn.” Every Toyota Forerunner and Subaru Wagon dons one of those “Surf Colorado” stickers, as if they’re members of some special club.
What’s worse, everyone’s always trying to convince me to try it. “You’re a surfer,” they always say. “You know how deal with whitewater.”
But that’s exactly what I’m afraid of. Learning to surf was a nightmare for me. Even though I have strong board-riding abilities from snowboarding, I was totally out of my element in the water. The ocean terrified me. I did everything wrong. I panicked underwater. I ditched my board (one time hitting my friend in the back of the head; he needed stitches). My wave selection was horrible. I took off on closeouts. I hesitated and got pitched over the falls. I got caught inside. I was caught on the outside by set waves. I got in the way, nearly getting my scalp sliced open by the fins of the next surfer ripping down the line. It took me three years to learn the basics that my brother was able to master in three days.
Every once in a while, I would get lucky and actually catch a wave. I would make it to my feet and somehow stay on my board for the drop until I reached that amazing place where you can relax and enjoy the ride. It was fear that made the experience so powerful. I learned true beauty is seen only through some sort of turbulence, like the calm in the eye of the storm. Maybe kayaking is the same way. I might be afraid to die, but I guess I shouldn’t be afraid to try.
Freelance columnist Alison Berkley can be reached at alison@berkleymedia.com.
