The Pelican

In my defense, I’m not usually afraid of birds.

But staring into the pelican's icy blue eyes, I was suddenly aware of every single part of my body - from my slightly numb toes - exposed in waterproof sandals to the wisps of hair that kept falling out of my high ponytail.

Sure, I’d had the occasional turf war with a mockingbird (mockingbirds are mean!), but mostly I’ve loved birds.

I’ve watched in wonder as thousands of swifts formed a tornado, diving one by one to the safety of the abandoned chimney below. And I’ve filled my phone with pictures of blue jays, cardinals, house finches, and sterlings. TOTALLY. FILLED.

But in this moment, there was nothing but 6 feet of cold water between me and those exceptionally still, steely blue eyes.

Suddenly - wings were no longer just for flying. They were strong, dextrous - like mighty fingers that could reach out and crush me at any moment. Powerful, mesmerizing, and terrifying.

I carefully maneuvered my kayak around the massive bird that just moments before was dive-bombing a dolphin to steal its hard-won dinner.

Apparently, the “finders keepers” rule does not apply to pelicans.

Moments later, confident I had escaped the semi-danger zone and was no longer within splashing distance, I audibly exhaled and beamed with delight.

I've never felt so present.

~~~

The first time I set foot in a kayak was July 20, 2014. It was the second anniversary of my father’s untimely death, and I’d committed to spending the day marveling at life and celebrating the fact that I am still here.

I knew that to find peace in my father's passing, I had to put the grief aside and embrace something else my dad would want for me instead: gratitude.

I'd spent the first "Dad Day," as my sister and I call it, watching a childhood friend walk down the aisle. Life-affirming indeed.

But today was about taking a risk and doing something new - something I'd always wanted to try - but for whatever reason, some combination of forgetfulness and laziness, I never had.

As I slipped into that first kayak, I knew I'd made the right choice. It was like walking into my childhood bedroom and seeing my Cinderella VHS and sticker collection exactly where I’d left them: instantly familiar.

Since then, I’ve become a bit addicted.

From a kayak, I’ve watched deer usher their babies away from the water - so close I could see the rise and fall of their breath.

I’ve seen the underbelly of a great blue heron gliding past me on the wind.

I’ve swallowed saltwater in San Diego and drifted past manatees who couldn’t possibly be bothered by my rude interruption.

I’ve felt my muscles burn in protest as I paddled furiously over rapids - on a day I probably should have stuck to the shore - and suffered more than one blistering sunburn.

I've shared a kayak with a spider I didn't have the heart to kill (who thanked me with no less than five bites) and watched fourth of July fireworks from the water.

Something happens when I lower myself into a kayak. The rest of the world gets still, and the constant ADHD noise in my head falls silent. It’s like I’m in my own personal Truman Show, and all the characters get to take their lunch when I’m on the water.

In a kayak - face to face with nature - without phones or deadlines, schedules or notifications, I am just me.

Just a beating heart and a fragile body moving through the water: alive.

And when I think of that pelican staring at me from across the water - resolute and unapologetic - confident in its place in the world and ready for whatever comes its way - it feels like looking in a mirror.