Last month my husband and I rented kayaks on the nearby river. We’ve kayaked before, but never at this spot. This was our first outing alone in months, so we were understandably excited — drunk on the fresh air and the possibility of uninterrupted conversation. So we paddled our kayaks down river, enjoying the sunshine, the reflection of the trees in the water, and the gentle breeze. “Do you think we can paddle between those little islands?” I motioned to the wide passage to our left. “Sure,” he responded, and we changed course.
Coming around to the other side, we found an even larger expanse of river and began paddling upstream. I retrieved my phone from its waterproof pouch and took a picture. Then I noticed the time. We had fifteen minutes before our kayaks were to be returned. We began paddling upstream furiously, looking for the next inlet to cut back between islands. But all we saw was green trees and sandy banks. After ten minutes, I stopped and opened Google Maps on my phone. This island stretched over 200 acres and we were barely a third of the way. We turned around, deciding to venture back the way we came. I had a pretty good blister developing on my right hand. But we decided to laugh and shrug about the whole situation–this was our first adventure out in months, after all! We’d pay the difference in rental fees and skip our takeout lunch.
On our way back, we saw another kayaker. “Is there a cut-through up here?” I asked her. “Yep, but it’s shallow. Just stay to your right!” she called. We waved and paddled on.
As expected, the bank to our right gave way and an inlet appeared. My husband cautiously paddled in first, and I followed. We had traversed shallow waterways before and knew we might have to get out and pull the kayaks by hand. Sure enough–we got stuck. I swung my feet over the side of my kayak and tried to hoist myself up. But I couldn’t. I expected to find solid ground under the couple inches of water. But instead it was slippery black mud that swallowed my leg almost to my knee. I gasped and looked up at my husband who was also knee-deep, moving in slow motion. I took a step and felt my right leg sink even deeper than my left. We struggled to remove our shoes, tossing muddy sandals into our kayaks. The mud felt bottomless, like if I stood in one spot too long, it might swallow me whole. We had at least fifty yards to go before the marsh ended and the river resumed. But for me, as my heart pounded and breath began to quicken, that was fifty yards too far.
When was the last time things weren’t what they seemed? When did you step out of the boat and realize there was no solid ground under your feet? It’s a common experience, varying in degrees of severity. I once started what I thought was a dream job, only to be slowly suffocated by an emotionally abusive supervisor. After a year I was fighting not just for my career, my reputation, and my health, but for my coworkers and for previous employees. That same sinking sensation came to me a few years later after we moved across the state, away from our family and friends, and my father and grandmother suddenly died. There was no solid ground to stand on.
Solid ground. I needed solid ground. My husband took hold of my kayak and told me to climb toward what looked like a small patch of grass. The mud was not as deep there, as long as I kept moving. I was hyperventilating now, bent over at the waist, shifting my weight from foot to foot. I don’t want to do this. I can’t do this. No one is going to save you, I told myself firmly. I began to move forward, one shaky step after another, wringing my hands as if I could shake the panic (and the mud) off. My husband was calmly pulling the kayaks, slogging through the mud slowly but surely.
One step.
Another.
I made it to the end of the grassy area and the mud deepened again. “Get in your kayak!” my husband called. “You can’t pull me!” I objected, frozen in place. “Get in your kayak!” he said again. I slogged my way over to him and flopped into my seat, black mud everywhere. He pulled and I rocked back and forth, willing my kayak through the mud and over a sand bar, until finally, finally…splash! My kayak slid smoothly into dark blue rippling water.
We made it.
Sometimes we can will ourselves through the hard times. And sometimes we can’t. Sometimes we need to climb to higher ground and take a different route. Sometimes we need a bit of help…or a lot of help. Both are okay. No matter what…you will make it through. Things may not be what they seem, but you are still who you are.
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