Look at me! I’m on a kayak! I’m kayaking!
This may not seem like a big deal. Lots of people kayak. They sell the boats at Walmart, which indicates they’re not exactly a fringe activity. But for me? This was a big deal.
I just didn’t know it until we got to the boathouse at Canoe Bay.
Kayaking had been on our itinerary for months. When I saw the resort’s available amenities, kayaking was one of them, and I immediately asked Jim if he’d be interested. He’d never kayaked before, but I was a seasoned pro, having paddled a whopping two times in my life.
He said yes, and off we went. But little did we know…
The first time I kayaked was a breeze. It was a slow float down the Lower Salt River in Mesa, Arizona. I didn’t really need to row; I basically could have used my oar to keep me from hitting the banks and would have been fine.
This was a relief because, frankly, I’d been nervous about it. At 49 years old and woefully out of shape, I didn’t know if I’d have the strength to kayak for two hours. Fortunately, the current did most of the work and I had a delightful instructor who pointed out cacti and swallows and wild horses.
My second time, however.
It was only two years later, but it was another lifetime. This time I was 51 and I was still woefully out of shape, but I was also a cancer survivor. Diagnosed in August 2020, by the next summer I’d completed five months of chemo followed by three weeks of radiation, with my last treatment on June 24, 2021.
Two months after that, I went on a press trip to Door County, Wisconsin.
Part of the itinerary included kayaking in Lake Michigan. This was not a calm, sedate, slowly flowing shallow river. Nope. We were venturing into the depths of a body of water so big its horizon felt like the ends of the earth.
But I said yes.
I’m glad I did, but oh, it was hard. We had two-person vessels and they paired me with someone who’d done this before. She sat in the back so she could steer, which required more experience.
Off we went. But unlike our fellow writers, who seemed to follow the instructor in a straight line, we zigged away from shore and zagged back, essentially covering twice the distance. That might not seem like a big deal, except for my very tender skin.
Radiation had damaged my flesh beyond the concentrated area where they’d focused the lasers. I had rashes on my arms, my chest, and between my fingers. I discovered intimately that skin is one giant organ.
Pro-tip: if you’ve had radiation and decide to kayak, wear gloves. We’d barely zigged and zagged more than a couple times before the web between my thumbs and forefingers began to tear.
Fortunately, our guide had bandages. She handed me several, and I needed all of them.
We continued, following the others. Sort of. I suggested we might want to go in a straight line and refrained from telling my partner where she could shove her “we’ll get there” platitudes.
We reached an area with a cliff. The others beached their boats on the rocks, clambered up the rocky escarpment, jumped into the lake, and swam back.
Oh, that looked like so much fun, but my skin was already raw and suddenly I was afraid, so we sat and floated and watched and I cried.
Flash forward to July 2025. Jim and I were invited to stay at Canoe Bay, a remote resort in the Northwoods of Wisconsin.
From the moment we arrived and saw the private lake from our private deck and drank in the crystal-clear reflections on its glassy surface, I pictured sliding along the shore, dipping my oar in a rhythmic pull across the water.
I pictured that, anticipated it, until we got to the boathouse.
And then I froze. I looked at the row of boats lined up like fallen dominoes. I looked at the dock and the lake. I followed Jim into the boathouse to get a life jacket and a two-paddled oar, and the entire time I thought, “I don’t know if I can do this.” I remembered the feel of my skin, the pain, the fear, the frustration; I remembered it all. I felt it as if it were happening all over again.
I hadn’t realized I had those visceral memories, but I did. I almost quit before I started. I almost told my husband I couldn’t do it.
And then I remembered who I am. That I’m the person that drove six days to the Gulf Coast during a pandemic and interrupted my life-saving chemotherapy treatments, sleeping in the back of an SUV, so I could teach a writing workshop.
Oh sure, I could have canceled. I had cancer, damnit, and I was in the middle of treatment. But I had said I would. People were coming in from all over the country. I had made a commitment. Plus, my oncologist told me my mental health was just as important and that this would be good for me.
That was in March of 2021. By April, I’d published my book, Living Landmarks of Chicago, most of which I’d researched and written while taking chemo.
Since then, I’ve done a lot of things that have scared me, like writing and publishing my first novel. I’m now writing my seventh.
I could get in a freaking boat on a lake as calm as a bathtub.
So I did. And it was glorious. I cannot tell you how magical it felt to be skimming along that glassy surface. Oh sure, it was slow-going. But the drops of cool water landing on my calves, the sun on my shoulders, the grin on my face–such fun!
Getting in that kayak scared me, but you know what scared me more? Letting my fear prevent me from experiencing magic.
I knew if I let my fear get the better of me, if I walked away without at least trying, I’d regret it.
One thing surviving cancer taught me is that you never know what’s going to happen. The next moment is not guaranteed, so I damn well better take advantage of opportunities when I can. I’d wanted to write novels since I was a little girl, and it took a life-threatening disease to kick me into gear.
That diagnosis changed so much. It created a seismic shift, and I’ve grown so much in the last four years I’m almost unrecognizable. I’ve learned to say no, learned the joy of missing out.
I’ve also learned to say Yes. Yes to the young girl who wanted to write stories, and Yes to the mid-life woman who knows life is magical and regrets are for the stories we don’t let ourselves live.
So I said yes to the kayak. Yes to the fear, to the courage, to me.
And in that quiet glide across the lake, I knew I’d conquered that fear for good.
I gave myself the gift of pure, unmitigated joy—because I looked at that line of kayaks stacked up like dominoes and said, I’ve got this.
And I did.
