Читать книгу Fierce Joy - Susie Caldwell Rinehart - Страница 11

2

I meet my future husband in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. It is a clear, calm day. I am the only beginner among expert kayakers going to Anacapa Island, thirteen miles off Santa Barbara, California.

What am I doing here? I left a great teaching career to take a job working for a famous mountaineer, Rick Ridgeway. I met him and his wonderful wife, Jennifer, when I was teaching their oldest daughter. I help Rick develop book ideas and film proposals for National Geographic and the Discovery Channel. He works project-to-project, never knowing when the next paycheck might roll in. This uncertainty makes me anxious, which makes ours a good working partnership. He goes on risky adventures, while I stay back in the office and secure the next contract.

One week, Rick asks to see me. He doesn’t like meetings, at least not the conference-room kind. He prefers “floating meetings.” This means that we get together at the local surf break and talk business. I zip up my wetsuit and wax my board nervously, because the waves are a fair size today and I don’t know how I’ll be able to keep up with Rick, much less concentrate on agenda items, as the waves crash around us. But I can’t let him down.

I walk to the water’s edge and step reluctantly into the freezing, roiling ocean. Rick surfs powerfully, while I flail on my giant longboard. Between waves, we float on our boards and I listen to Rick’s latest idea for an expedition, a book, and for conserving more wild spaces around the world. We discuss plans and logistics. He is energized and tossing tasks at me quickly. How am I going to remember all these details? I wish there was a way to keep a pen and notebook in my wetsuit. As I am daydreaming about waterproof paper, Rick surprises me with a request.

“I want you to interview someone for my next book who will only be in the country for five days.” Rick says.

“So you want me to meet him at the airport?” I guess.

“No, the whole time he’ll be in a kayak. I want you to paddle across open ocean with him. Have you ever been in a sea kayak?” Rick asks.

“No,” I say.

“Well, want to try something new? What do you say?”

Before I can answer, Yvon Chouinard paddles his surfboard next to us. Rick and Yvon are old friends, having climbed together in Tibet, Bhutan, Chile, and Argentina, among other places. Yvon and his wife, Melinda, started the Patagonia clothing company just a block from here. Yvon often surfs at this local break, and sometimes joins us.

Now there are two adventure legends looking at me, waiting for my answer. How can I say no? I remember one of Rick’s favorite sayings, “Commit. Then figure it out.”

“Well, if you think I can do it…”

Yvon is a man of few words. He sits back, pivots his board to catch a wave, and looks at us.

“Enough talk. C’mon, let’s surf,” Yvon says with a mischievous grin. He pops up on the wave and glides effortlessly down its liquid-green face. Rick stares at me, waiting.

“Yes?” I say to Rick, more of a question than a statement. It’s enough for him. He gives me a big, approving smile, then spins on his board to catch the next wave.

How hard can it be? I think to myself.

Turns out, pretty hard. There is a big difference between surfing near shore and heading out into open ocean in a narrow kayak. One week later, I am floating in a vast sea where there are sharks, shipping lanes, unpredictable winds, and massive waves to worry about. To make matters worse, the man Rick wants me to interview refuses to talk until we reach the island, twelve miles into the Pacific. Now I have to go. There is no turning back.

Paddling the kayak feels easy, but I am not going very far or fast. Still, I feel good. I’m pulling it off; no one in our group knows I am a rookie, I think.

“You’re holding the paddle upside down,” says a gentle voice.

The voice belongs to a guy with curly brown hair and a long beard. He slides his kayak next to mine, shows me how to hold the paddle, and doesn’t make a big scene.

“I’m Kurt,” he says. “I’m one of the kayak guides your interviewee hired; I’m here to help the group navigate the shipping lanes and shark-y areas.”

“Oh. Is this where they found the girl’s body last year, eaten by a shark?”

“Well, they’re not sure that the shark killed the girl. It may have snacked on her after the fact,” says Kurt. As if that makes it all better.

I start paddling fast toward the island. I have a sudden urge to reach land.

“Let’s take a compass bearing first, Speedy,” Kurt jokes.

Meanwhile, the man I am supposed to be interviewing is far ahead of us, working with another guide. There’s no chance we can talk now. I realize that there is no way for me to reach him or land for several hours. Luckily, Kurt is here and wants to talk.

“So is it true? Are the poles really going to switch?” I say out of the blue. I read once that the Earth’s magnetic field inexplicably reverses itself sometimes, so that the north magnetic pole becomes the south.

I am hoping that someone who can navigate with a compass can reassure me about this event.

“Oh yeah. Pretty soon now,” Kurt says, without hesitation.

“But if we lose north, what will we set our compasses to?”

“Well, we may have to look south to find north,” he says with a mix of wonder and jest. A flock of pelicans glides by us, an inch from the sea’s surface, somehow never dipping their blue-gray wingtips in the ocean.

“Birds and whales migrate thousands of miles and they don’t rely on any one thing,” he continues. “They’ve blindfolded birds and attached magnets to their heads to scramble the magnetic field. The birds always make it home,” Kurt says.

“So they have something like a deeper, internal compass to guide them?” I ask.

“It seems like it. Or just multiple ways to locate themselves. Whales navigate through the arctic by bouncing calls off the undersides of the ice and listening for the echoes.”

“How do you know all this stuff?” I ask.

“I read maybe more than I should,” he smirks. “You know what I think about?” asks Kurt.

I shake my head.

“If the word compass means ‘all that surrounds us,’ then maybe we need to wander. We need to get lost to widen our perspective. Maybe it’s not about adjusting our instruments, but adjusting the way we look at things.”

I am falling for this boy’s mind. We paddle and talk easily. Four hours later, we land on a rocky beach on Anacapa Island, not much more than a seagull-infested rock in the ocean. After lunch, Kurt and his friend Scott hitch a ride on a ferry back to the mainland and leave us alone on Anacapa Island.

“Sorry, we have to get back to guide another group,” says Scott.

After they leave, I realize that I have no idea what Kurt’s last name is. I am sure I’ll never see him again.

Two days later, after I’ve finished the interviews, we paddle home. When I get back to my old, red, Subaru station wagon, there is bird shit all over the hood. There is also a parking ticket on the windshield. I rip the ticket off the window. On the back side of the ticket, a phone number is scribbled in black Sharpie with the words, “Let’s go for a walk in Cold Spring canyon!” It is signed, “Kurt.” The invitation makes me feel curious, but vulnerable. Who goes for a walk with a stranger in a canyon? Then I remember how gentle Kurt was on the water, and how kind.

On my first date with Kurt, I sit near the creek and read poetry while he scrambles up rock faces easily, lightly, looking for birds. He tells great stories of which he is never the center of attention. We go on a few more hikes together. We lose track of time, identifying animal tracks, plants, and bird songs. Then one day, he cuts his hair and shaves the beard off and it is as if I am seeing him for the first time. He has gorgeous eyes. We find shade in secret caves and discover how well our bodies fit together.

“Here, I made you something,” Kurt says. He hands me a brown, woven bracelet.

“What is it made out of?” I ask.

“Dogbane fibers. They are super strong. Want me to tie it on your wrist?”

“Sure,” I say. I find it exotic to be with someone who can make jewelry out of weeds.

It is dangerous falling in love with Kurt. On the one hand, he is brilliant, honest, and hilarious. On the other hand, he doesn’t seem to own shoes. For as long as I can remember, I have had a list of what makes the perfect partner. Fear says, “How can you fall for someone who doesn’t satisfy the requirements on that list?”

My list:

• 6’5

• Canadian

• Pacifist

• Ivy-League graduate

• Clean-shaven

• Outgoing, a people person

• Loves poetry

• Runs faster than me

• Goal-driven

• Ambitious

Kurt, when I meet him:

• 5’11

• American

• Ex-marine

• State-school graduate

• Shaggy, old-growth beard

• Likes animals more than people

• Doesn’t read poetry

• Hates to run, except on all fours like an animal

• Lives in a tent

• Never wears shoes

Surrendering to the magnetic pull of this relationship is not comfortable for me. To trust the relationship, I have to let go of control and expectations. The more I trust, the more I gain. We go on adventures together, sometimes with maps and compasses, sometimes without. I like myself when I am with him; I am relaxed, confident, and creative. I am not worried about being perfect. With him, I feel like I belong.

I throw my perfect partner list into the wind and watch it blow away. Fear babbles incessantly in my head, giving me reasons why I shouldn’t, but I do it anyway. It feels reckless. But it also feels like I am being held. I remember this feeling from when I was very young, leaping into a cold lake. Terrifying and delicious. But I didn’t drown. The water held me.

I am used to spending my mental energy worrying. Is this right? What if this is terribly wrong and I should be with someone else? But now, instead of worrying, I daydream about our next adventure together. With Kurt, my voice has powerful ease. I say what I feel like saying. I don’t feel the usual societal pressure to be cute or witty. I also don’t feel like I have to prove that I am not needy. I’ve even stopped checking myself in the mirror to see how I look. It feels like I’m peeling off layers of caution and prudence and finding my skin underneath, young and shining.