I have a hole in my hand, and it’s not from crew, ’cause I’m not rowing anymore. It’s from my little bike crash yesterday morning. I hit a stop light on the way to work and went down a one-way street I don’t usually go down, then figured I had better get on the sidewalk in case a car came uphill and squished me. Unfortunately there was a lip in the concrete on the driveway I tried to turn into, my angle was too narrow, and I did some sort of somersault. At least I assume it was a somersault, because I have bad-ass road burn on my right thigh, but my left shoulder is bruised too. There was no traffic, and I landed in the driveway anyway, so at least I didn’t get run over next, but that was still only the first adrenalin rush of the day.

I got to work, and the twelve person group we were planning to take out for a six-hour paddle didn’t show up until a quarter after ten. Nine eighteen year old boys and three chaperones. On a mission trip from Florida. (You know Seattle is a heathen wilderness, of course.) One boy and one chaperone opted to stay on shore, and somehow between three guides we got them outfitted and they mostly listened to the safety instruction. This did not prevent them from trying to race most of the way around to the lighthouse beach, wearing themselves out as we were heading into the wind. I really really wanted to knock their heads together and yell at them. We had lunch on the beach; apparently I missed a circle prayer before lunch. They went up to the waterfront coffee shops for a hot drink and to watch a little world cup. One guide, also my boss and owner of the whole deal, took his boat on his car and headed back to the boathouse to open rental operations.

The rain blew itself out, the sky cleared, and the wind picked up. We did a surf launch and started heading back. Now the wind is mostly behind us, but also blowing into shore. We end up in shallower water and fast moving, five foot swells. I’m doing back sweep, and the kids are holding tighter formation since they’re getting tired (but still fucking around, and taking nothing seriously), but my boat doesn’t have a rudder (it does but I’ve never had success in getting it down) and I’m blowing around. I didn’t start getting scared, I think until the second or third time I was sitting sideways on a wave and not sure why I was still right side up. The last boat, which I’m keeping pace with, the two boys yell over ‘Are you okay?’

‘I’m fine!’ I yell back, trying to keep a brave face, but under the spray skirt my legs are shaking.

The lead guide blows his whistle and indicates that we need to get away from shore, into deeper water. Intellectually I know what he is doing. Shallow water means the water piles up, more waves. Deeper water, longer wavelength, safer. So I yell and gesture too, even though I don’t want to head out parallel with the waves coming in. We head away from shore. The sky is brilliantly blue, the sun is shining, the sea is a beautiful azure, and the waves are playing with us like a cat with a mouse. Should it eat us now or later?

I think I’m going to die, but I can’t say so, because I’m the guide.

We head into the wind for maybe ten or fifteen minutes. Maybe longer, I don’t know. I keep paddling because every stroke is a stabilizing stroke, and the wind is pushing me and the current is pulling me and my mouth is dry and I know this is fear. The boys are in doubles, and I keep looking around to make sure they are all paddling. “Red boat!” I holler. “Keep paddling!”

Someone is singing ‘row, row, row you boat,’ and I remember a part in Jill Fredston’s Rowing to Latitude. She and her husband are making some horrible, gut-wrenching crossing and she hears him singing, so she thinks he must be having a grand time, although she is scared. When they reach shore, she asks him how he was so relaxed as to be able to sing. ‘Jill,’ he says with great seriousness, ‘I only sing when I’m scared.’

As we came to the channel marker on the point, I realized that the chaperones’ boat is not making the turn as wide as the rest of us. I yell at them to come out from shore with the group. They want to land right there. On the point were it is shallow, where there are submerged remnants of pilings. I yell some more, we are almost back to the pier, once we’re around the point we’ll be sheltered from the wind. The water doesn’t look any calmer to me, but that’s the belief I am clinging to.

Finally we’re around the point. The water calms down. I calm down. The last boat, that I’m following in now is the same blue boat I was chasing on the way out. Now one of them is paddling, and one of them is singing Christmas carols. Joy to the World. Christ is King. I would like to get on dry land. I am going home and drinking a bottle of red wine while I nurse my wounds in a hot bath.

First we have to carry up the boats. We have to clean up gear. We have to extract payment from these mission people. Turns out they don’t want to pay the full price agreed upon beforehand. They didn’t go to the island (a crossing that would have been extrememly foolhardy to attempt under the conditions), and it rained. It’s Seattle! You want a discount because it rained? Finally full payment was recieved, and they left. No tip, despite the fact that they were pretty obviously collecting money for a tip before. I should have made a point of taking the wad of cash, but I hate asking for money, and I was waiting for them to offer it. And then they didn’t because we made them pay for the trip. No discounts because you were late! No discounts for weather! No discounts for not dying!

Then we three guides had a long talk about the weather conditions, the difficulties of large groups, the mental oddities of the religious right. I had asked one of the boys if they were on some sort of graduation trip. ‘No,’ he said, ‘we’re on a mission trip.’

‘Oh? What’s your mission?’

‘To tell people about Jesus.’

Fortunately, they didn’t try to tell me about Jesus. Their prayers certainly didn’t do anything for the weather. I’ve had more luck calming winds by pouring vodka for the spirits in Siberia.

It was so windy yesterday, so clear and beautiful in the afternoon, but better suited for sailing than for kayaking. I took the water taxi and then the bus home, drank my wine and took my bath and cried on my roommate’s shoulder for a while. The day was pretty much on par with the day in St. Petersburg when I had the flu, tried to do research in the State Historical Archives and was denied exit from the building because I didn’t have some little slip of paper with a signature on it certifying I had returned whatever materials I had used. I didn’t have the signature, because I hadn’t used any materials…

Today my shoulder hurts, my legs are sore (that’s from four days in a row of bike commuting though) and kayak guiding no longer seems such an idyllic job. Still, it is one day out of three summers. Perhaps the second time I have really not enjoyed a trip. I’ll recover.