Finding the light in the dark

For most of my life, I’ve been afraid. I’ve been afraid and I’ve made decisions based upon those fears. Some of them, like a genuine dislike of heights, make sense from a human survival kind of perspective and don’t really interrupt normal life. And then there are the ones that don’t make much sense at all and are exceptionally disruptive.

For example, I can peer down from the Observation Deck of the Empire State Building, but can’t stand at the edge of a cliff or even tolerate watching someone else stand there. It freaks me out. I think this is ok. I don’t need to stand on the edge of a cliff to have a normal life. But, I do need to be ok with looking down from the Empire State Building. You know, because I’m obsessed with New York City.

In contrast, I genuinely don’t like the dark. I slept with a light on until I was eleven. I still don’t like walking through a dark room. Of course, I can turn on a light so it’s not that big of a deal. However, that same fear also means I don’t like being in any body of water in which I can’t see what’s around me. I grew up in Southern California and my friends liked to body surf. Me, not so much. If you’ve ever swum in that part of the Pacific you know how murky it is. You can’t even see your feet. Sometimes I was able to fight through my fear, sometimes I couldn’t. The point is, this particular fear has disrupted my life.

However, I do like to kayak. And, I like it enough to risk the possibility that I will end up in the water, unable to see what’s around me. Recently, Mr. C and I left behind the security of terra firma and ventured onto the water for a nighttime adventure. Nighttime, people. Like, darkness. It’s funny because I had this same opportunity years ago and I declined. But this time, I didn’t even hesitate; I was ready to go. I guess there’s something to be said for embracing change as we age.

Twenty-one years ago, I went on a several-day kayaking adventure. It might have been the most adventurous thing I’ve ever done, driving cross-country with a cat-in-the-backpack, two dogs and a kid notwithstanding.

We were off the coast of Vancouver Island in British Columbia. Needless to say, it was beautiful out there. Even if it was my honeymoon and I was peeing in the woods, not showering, and sleeping in a tent with Husband Number One and his almost-six-year-old son, Mr. A, while three other people slept in a tent next to us. Extraordinary, yes. But perhaps a bit of an unusual choice for a honeymoon. Maybe that’s why our marriage didn’t work out. As I’ve mentioned before, I tend to enjoy indoor plumbing and a comfortable bed at the end of the day. Anyway, that’s not my point.

There were many spectacular experiences on that trip. Otters frolicking on the shore as the sun rose, seals cavorting alongside us, enormous sea stars of purple and red clinging to the rocks as we paddled by, catching crabs as we pulled in for the night and dropping them in a pot minutes later. It was amazing. Well worth peeing outside and skipping a shower for several days.

But, the part I remember best happened one night. In the dark. Ok folks, get your minds out of the gutter. I know I said I was on my honeymoon, but that’s not where I’m going with this story. Anyway, we’ve already determined that the dark and I are not friends because, you know, I can’t see what’s around me. And we were very far from civilization. The only light was from the moon and stars, our flashlights…

…and bio-luminescence. That’s right, I’ve seen it up close and in person. And, I’m not talking about the little bit Mr. C and I saw on our nighttime kayak adventure off the coast of Kingston, Washington. That was minor, like the meager beams a couple of flashlights make as you walk through the deep, dark woods. No, I’m talking about the kind of experience you don’t forget. Ever. Bio-luminescence comparable to your first nighttime walk through Times Square or the Vegas Strip. Like the Eiffel Tower’s dazzling, nightly light show. That kind of experience. Overwhelming and completely captivating. Sparkling little diamonds flashing with every movement of the water. Where the water lapped up onto shore, where fish swam beneath the surface, where three men and a boy peed into the water to see who could write their full name in tiny shards of light. It was extraordinary. Even the peeing part. If I’d had a penis I would have peed my name too.

So, how have I changed since that amazing night? Twenty-one years ago I was too afraid to make my way through the dark in order to reveal the light. I stayed behind, safe on shore, watching as the bow waves of my companions broke into thousands of tiny, flashing lights. It was beautiful, even if I wasn’t out in it. But I’ve often wondered what I missed that night. How different was it to actually be out there in the dark surrounded by the phenomenon instead of standing on shore and watching from a distance?

Since then I’ve learned that life is dangerous. Sometimes, the things you worry about the most actually happen. But, you have no real control of how it’s all going to go down. And, if you live every moment worried about something that might happen then you don’t really live. Where’s the fun in that?

If I could go back now I would take a deep breath, push my fears away and choose to live. I would hop into that kayak and venture away from the safety of the shore so that I could fully experience the most glorious natural phenomenon I have ever witnessed.

Which is what I did recently, when I had the opportunity to go on a nighttime bio-luminescence kayaking tour with one of my best friends and our kids. In the end, it wasn’t glorious. It wasn’t captivating. But, while it wasn’t anything like what I did two decades ago, this time I didn’t hesitate. Not even for a moment. I was ready to go. And, I let Mr. C go too.

We ventured out to explore in our very own kayaks. In the dark. It wasn’t scary at all. And, even if we only saw the faintest glimmers of bio-luminescence in the dark waters below, it was fun. We were kayaking in the dark! How could it not be fun?

Next time, I’ll be out there again, searching for the kind of light you can only find if you accept that sometimes it’s worth the risk of getting lost in the dark to discover something you will never forget. What other choice do we have?