I stood up slowly, knees trembling, ankles on the verge of buckling. Questions flooded my mind, “Is my stance correct? Are my feet placed far enough apart? What did my brothers always tell me about standing on a board?” I couldn’t think of any of the answers. I forced myself to think about the last time I was on a stand-up paddle board. The first and last time. How did I cope then? I did cope. “Keep it simple, Yvette. Don’t overthink it. Stand. Let your body find its balance.”
The board finally stopped wobbling beneath me. The lake water returned to a glassy surface. Paddle in hand, I dipped it into the water beside me. “Just like a gondolier.” I’ve not been to Venice yet. I’m not particularly impassioned to have to see it, but I have seen from photos and footage about the gondoliers. Slow, steady and with confidence they immerse their oars into the water and pull. Simple. Slow.
I was moving. Drifting on the surface of the water. I was removing myself from the shoreline and the people along it, where the fishing, picnics, and sunbathing were. Where the power boats were being reversed into the water at the concrete ramp.
Before me lay the waterways of the lake. Forests and small coves hidden from the shore’s view.
I was gliding toward a deep cove I had always wanted to see for myself. I travelled, as if in a fairy tale. I shifted myself with each paddle stroke closer to that water lane that was surrounded by forest on two sides and a hidden bend in the water way, the far distance promising a further adventure of sights and encounters.
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