Anchoring

We left Anacortes on Sunday morning and spent the day traveling on the water, looking for a spot to 'drop the hook'. Finding that spot didn't occur until mid afternoon due to a couple hours spent seeking decent anchorage in Friday Harbor. (We ended up over near Roche Harbor in Westcott Bay). Our second day out was met with rain and easily filled with all those small chores that I put off doing when the sun is shining and I can revel in the warmth of breezy blue skies and the water that surrounds me. I kept myself busy all day. It was yesterday, three days into our trip that proved to be the most difficult. There were no more projects that called out to be completed. My book, although fascinating, was no longer pulling me in. The idea of sitting still and just reading made my skin crawl. I found myself yearning for people and activity. I wanted my husband to make the crossing from Reid Harbor to Roche Harbor just to go get some cereal for the morning (An invitation he gently refused before diving back into his own book "Cereal? Just Cereal? Uh no").

I was literally drumming my fingers on the table, restless and tense. I wanted to move, I wanted to 'do' and I didn't want to do it alone. The only option that seemed available to me was kayaking. Alone. The idea of doing one of my favorite activities by myself was so uncomfortable. And, thankfully, that feeling was enough to jog me out of the restlessness. I asked myself the simple question: since when didn't I want to be alone with myself? Since when did the silence frighten me?

I kayaked. Slowly and with appreciation for all that I was seeing. It felt forced at first – funny, but it wasn't until I took a deep breath that I realized that I had been hyperventilating. It wasn't until I couldn't unwind that I realized how tightly wound I was.

I drifted around Reid Harbor and let the tension drain away. My life on the mainland faded into the background, muted and benign. This is the shift that happens when I am out on the water although it usually doesn't take three days to get there. For me, that fact is simply another symptom of what has been a larger issue alive in my world. I'm not sure what I gain with that awareness except, perhaps, the distance to see more clearly. Stepping out of my reactive, distraction ridden, caretaking world is like putting down an anchor and feeling that moment when it catches against the current. There is an instance of strain, the line goes tight and the boat strains against the sudden call for it to stop. Afterwards, there is a sigh in the forces governing the boat – the anchor chain settles and the boat rides forward gently to drift on the line that now holds it firm.

I have been out on Jessara now for four days and finally the relaxation begins to unfold. It is just the two of us – and our dog – spending a week out on the waters of the San Juan Islands. I am sitting in the pilothouse facing due north in Blind Bay – the perfect location to watch the ferries run back and forth from Orcas to Shaw Island. I can hear them coming, the low hum of their engines announcing the green and white, triple or double decked flat bottom boats as they make their way through the islands. The bay has a scattering of a dozen sailboats and a few power boaters anchored throughout. There is a small island in front of the bay that has a large group of kayakers camping and the soft scent of a wood smoke drifts through the open hatch. Above the hills of Orcas the sky is darkening with night even though to the west the clouds break revealing the lavender sky that only hours ago was vivid blue.

Anchoring is tricky and I wonder how long it can hold. At least through the weekend until I get home. Perhaps I'll gain a few days on the other side of this vacation. Mainly I just want to remember what this feels like. To be quiet in my body and mind. To allow the moments to unfold. To be.