Into the sunrise
08/11/14 04:36
I am not a wealthy man, nor do I wish to be one. I drive a car that is 15 years old and has 235,000 miles on it. No worries. I like my car and for now it is quite dependable. I don’t need the flash or glamor of a new car and I am happy with the way things are. I suppose that by the standards of the world, our home and our possessions are quite extravagant. I may look very wealthy to many of the world’s people. But in our community, we are quite average. I have probably been less than prudent in saving for retirement. There have been years when our church pledge exceeded our personal savings, but we have never wanted for nutritious meals or a safe place to lay our heads at night.
I do not say this by way of complaining or of bragging, either. It is just a description of my place in this life.
What I do want to say that is for an average person in an average community, I seem to be blessed with extraordinary experiences.
No seasoned traveler in the world’s most exotic location, no one of the richest of the rich, living in the lap of luxury, no king or governor or present, had a better view that the one with which I began my day yesterday.
Knowing that we have some cold weather coming, I decided to get in at least one more paddle before the snow flies next week. I got up very early and was on my way to the lake by 5 a.m. Because of the shift from daylight savings time to regular time, the sunrise is earlier these days and the moon is full, so I thought it might work for me to paddle from the moonset to the sunrise and still make it to the office by 8 am or so.
It was dark as I drove to the lake. The clouds were hiding the moon for most of the trip with only an occasional glimpse between the trees and clouds. The air was still and very warm - maybe 50 degrees - as I unloaded my boat from the rack on the roof of the car. The water was glassy smooth and it was easy to see as I set my boat in the water, climbed aboard and fastened the spray skirt around the combing. My cedar paddle was nearly silent as I pushed away from the shore and dug in for a few deep strokes to get my little boat going. I paused to take a picture of the moon. The waterproof camera I take with me on the boat isn’t the best and sitting in a kayak isn’t the best way to hold a camera still for a long exposure, but I snapped a few pictures anyway, hoping that I could capture the mod of the oh-so-perfect moment.
To my right the moon was setting as I paddled south. To my right the pre-dawn glow was creeping up the horizon.
I’m not much of a fan of magic, but the day seemed to be magical. I had the lake to myself. The campground was empty. The boats and docks have been removed from the water. The ducks were barely murmuring and the geese were all parked on the shore. I didn’t even hear the owl who often is willing to share his cry with all in or on the lake. A fish or two was rising and my paddle was dripping.
As the color began to come upon the horizon, it was reflected perfectly in the lake. Before long, I had paddled across the lake and the lake was filling with color. The camera doesn’t do justice to how it looks, with an entire range from dark, nearly black-and-white with a little blue moon set to the bold bright orange and red and yellow and gold to the deep pastel purple and blue and pink.
For a kid who grew up with only 8 crayons in my box when I started school, and who never got the big 128-color box, but did once have a 64-color box, I don’t know enough names for colors to describe the morning glow on the sky and water.
What I do know is that the show appeared to be for me alone. No other person had bothered to come out to that place to look.
A calm day with a perfect reflection allows one to literally paddle on the color and as you do you get colored as well. My boat reflected colors that I would never use to describe a simple cedar kayak. My paddle looked like it was made of a thousand colors instead of a single piece of wood no larger in any dimension than a 2x4. It probably was carved from a 2x4. I couldn’t see my face, but the way my hands were taking on color, I assume that the glow was being shared with all of me.
I was able to literally paddle into the sunrise. It was amazing! Breathtaking! Indescribable! Which means, of course, that these words fall so very far short of the experience that they are inconsequential in comparison with my memory of the morning.
It isn’t possible for the richest person in the world to have felt more fortunate than I did as I paddled yesterday morning.
And to top it off, I knew that I had a partner - the love of my life - waiting at home to hear me describe the paddle and look lovingly at the pictures with me.
Whoever wrote the beer ads: “It doesn’t get any better than this,” had never experienced what I did yesterday, I guess. For drinking beer with a gang of guys pales in comparison with paddling out of the moonset directly into the heart of the sunrise.
It is a lot colder this morning - nearly 20 degrees colder. But I think I need to head out again. After all it may be snowing by Monday and I can endure a lot of cold for a glimpse of glory like I saw yesterday.
I do not say this by way of complaining or of bragging, either. It is just a description of my place in this life.
What I do want to say that is for an average person in an average community, I seem to be blessed with extraordinary experiences.
No seasoned traveler in the world’s most exotic location, no one of the richest of the rich, living in the lap of luxury, no king or governor or present, had a better view that the one with which I began my day yesterday.
Knowing that we have some cold weather coming, I decided to get in at least one more paddle before the snow flies next week. I got up very early and was on my way to the lake by 5 a.m. Because of the shift from daylight savings time to regular time, the sunrise is earlier these days and the moon is full, so I thought it might work for me to paddle from the moonset to the sunrise and still make it to the office by 8 am or so.
It was dark as I drove to the lake. The clouds were hiding the moon for most of the trip with only an occasional glimpse between the trees and clouds. The air was still and very warm - maybe 50 degrees - as I unloaded my boat from the rack on the roof of the car. The water was glassy smooth and it was easy to see as I set my boat in the water, climbed aboard and fastened the spray skirt around the combing. My cedar paddle was nearly silent as I pushed away from the shore and dug in for a few deep strokes to get my little boat going. I paused to take a picture of the moon. The waterproof camera I take with me on the boat isn’t the best and sitting in a kayak isn’t the best way to hold a camera still for a long exposure, but I snapped a few pictures anyway, hoping that I could capture the mod of the oh-so-perfect moment.
To my right the moon was setting as I paddled south. To my right the pre-dawn glow was creeping up the horizon.
I’m not much of a fan of magic, but the day seemed to be magical. I had the lake to myself. The campground was empty. The boats and docks have been removed from the water. The ducks were barely murmuring and the geese were all parked on the shore. I didn’t even hear the owl who often is willing to share his cry with all in or on the lake. A fish or two was rising and my paddle was dripping.
As the color began to come upon the horizon, it was reflected perfectly in the lake. Before long, I had paddled across the lake and the lake was filling with color. The camera doesn’t do justice to how it looks, with an entire range from dark, nearly black-and-white with a little blue moon set to the bold bright orange and red and yellow and gold to the deep pastel purple and blue and pink.
For a kid who grew up with only 8 crayons in my box when I started school, and who never got the big 128-color box, but did once have a 64-color box, I don’t know enough names for colors to describe the morning glow on the sky and water.
What I do know is that the show appeared to be for me alone. No other person had bothered to come out to that place to look.
A calm day with a perfect reflection allows one to literally paddle on the color and as you do you get colored as well. My boat reflected colors that I would never use to describe a simple cedar kayak. My paddle looked like it was made of a thousand colors instead of a single piece of wood no larger in any dimension than a 2x4. It probably was carved from a 2x4. I couldn’t see my face, but the way my hands were taking on color, I assume that the glow was being shared with all of me.
I was able to literally paddle into the sunrise. It was amazing! Breathtaking! Indescribable! Which means, of course, that these words fall so very far short of the experience that they are inconsequential in comparison with my memory of the morning.
It isn’t possible for the richest person in the world to have felt more fortunate than I did as I paddled yesterday morning.
And to top it off, I knew that I had a partner - the love of my life - waiting at home to hear me describe the paddle and look lovingly at the pictures with me.
Whoever wrote the beer ads: “It doesn’t get any better than this,” had never experienced what I did yesterday, I guess. For drinking beer with a gang of guys pales in comparison with paddling out of the moonset directly into the heart of the sunrise.
It is a lot colder this morning - nearly 20 degrees colder. But I think I need to head out again. After all it may be snowing by Monday and I can endure a lot of cold for a glimpse of glory like I saw yesterday.