Arriving at Belle

September 5, 2007
Day Seventeen
Belle Island

By the time I landed on Belle Island, fog had vanished in sparkling sunlight and the air was balmy. No sooner had I run the bow of my boat onto the shore of Robinson Harbor, but I filled the water bag and laid it out on dark beach rocks to warm. The shower at Rock Harbor two days ago had been forgone to round of Blake; my hair hadn't been washed since six days ago at Chippewa.

With water barely warm and sunlight still on the beach to dry my hair, I headed up old stone steps to the ridge a hundred yards above the campground. Along with water, I carried shampoo, clean underwear and a towel. No sooner had I begun soaping when I caught a glimpse of Jim’s shirt on the point and headed my way. “Jim, if you interrupt my shower, I will kill you.” Without room to misinterpret my desire for privacy, Jim turned onto another trail back to camp.

Later I sat on the gravel bench that constitutes Belle Island’s beach while Jim entertained me with story-telling ranging from his dire experience rounding Blake (include the gruesome detail of throwing up when he finally reached a rock ledge where he could, just barely, land his boat) to the way that fish rise on the shelves around Belle and Amygdaloid when the weather turns cooler.

We were alone on Belle. Everyone there when I landed had left on the Voyager II an hour ago. Next to arrive after us were two paddlers in a double. We watched a middle-aged man give instructions to his partner on unloading gear and ask the location of mesh nets to contain a hundred small items that pack more easily into corners than a single large bag. Jim and I agreed that we would never trade captaincy of our single boats for one shared.

Very quickly, however, their gear was sorted, toted, and stowed beneath a tarp at their campsite. Niles and Patti strolled down, sprawled beside us in their ankle-length and sleeveless wetsuits, and joined Jim's and my wide-ranging conversation. Patti described to Niles why we are more interested in the Buddha and the Sangha than the Darhma. She illustrated for us the limited social scope of Bayport, Minnesota, the small town where she and Niles live; how she’d lived there for fifty years and had her first conversation with a lesbian woman a couple of years ago.

After enough conversation to know that we were sympathetic souls, Niles proposed that the four of us paddle together tomorrow. Woe baby! It was one thing to engage in water-side conversation where I could leave at any moment. It was another thing entirely to offer an entire day of solitariness on the altar of companionship. I was willing to consider the invitation, but I also immediately felt my limits.

“In this moment, I have no idea whether I would like to paddle with you tomorrow. As soon as I do know, I will tell you. Would you want to leave early?” For twenty days I had been submerged in the practice of being in the moment; of watching my mind play with future choices while remaining detached from each of them. This was my first chance to practice this lesson in the context of humans: to let a human proposition be like wind behind my left ear; a chirp of birdsong; the breeze ruffling hair on my left forearm.