Zen and the art of kayaking

So, I wrote the following piece with the intention of submitting it to a certain natural health mag that takes submissions of this type...we'll see what happens, but hence the somewhat formal posting and reference to my "exercise routine." It's basically a recap of the zen-like experience of one of the first times kayaking..not exactly THE first time, but by far the best experience that I've had, and the first time I realized exactly how amazing a sport it was. It took place on in Vermont while camping out on Lake Champlain, as mentioned below. It was also in general, one of the most beautiful settings that I have been in...not exactly ever, but definitely in a very long time.


Journey to the center of the lake
I bore easily at the gym. The treadmill leaves me feeling like a hamster running on its wheel. Whenever possible, I opt for activities that will keep me in shape and inspired beyond the number of calories I'm burning—long walks, hikes, bike riding and swimming have always refreshed my exercise routine. With this mindset, while camping on the southern shores of Lake Champlain, I decided to try kayaking.

After securing a rental and dragging what seemed like a flimsy excuse for a canoe to the rocky shoreline, I attempted (yet failed) to keep my balance while climbing into the wobbling contraption.

I had some trouble pulling myself out of the muck of the lake’s bottom, and once I was able to float freely I had the odd sensation that I was about to sink into the water. Unlike the sturdier canoe, this simple lightweight kayak left me completely vulnerable with what felt like no barrier between myself and the depths of the lake.

Once I started to paddle, however, figuring out how to navigate and managing to move in somewhat of a straight line, I started feeling a little like Paikea from Whale Rider. Filled with a sense of empowerment and a primal comfort sweeping over me, I glided further and further from the shore, surrounded by layers of mountains—the Adirondacks to my left, the Green Mountains to my right, stretching back and fading to blue-grey in the distance.


The yelling of children from the shore soon became muffled echoes, and eventually, nonexistent. When I finally looked back and had to squint to see the campsite, I slowed down. The silence soundproofed my ears to everything but the gentle lapping of the oars in the water and the flow of my breath. I stopped paddling and just sat there. Again, a vulnerable feeling crept up on me—I was completely alone on this massive lake. But as I took it all in, the layers of mountains, the golden orange from the sinking sun climbing over them and plunging into a glimmering dance on the water, I felt like I had drifted into a living painting that flaunted its artist’s mastery of light. With the perfectly still stretch of water in front of me, the lake appeared endless and there I was, in what felt like the center of eternity, just breathing it all in.


It was a type of calm that had been almost impossible for me to attain until then, a calm that had seemed especially distant after my recent move to New York; it was the first time that I had encroached upon successful meditation. By the time I had started rowing again, the oars rhythmically lapping the water, my breathing deep and healthy, I knew I had found my sport. I glided through the cool air with no intention of ever coming back in.

Of course, eventually I had to come back in and swap this timeless tranquility for endless bustle. While my lifestyle does not allow me the freedom to hit the water on a daily basis, I have vowed to trek to areas where I can kayak as often as possible. For the time in between, the experience is something that I continue to carry with me--to center myself in the city that never sleeps, and of course, to keep me going on the treadmill.