I’ve led an interesting life. Often, I find myself going “off-script.”
Usually, this is when adventure happens.
It’s the moments when I’m being lifted out of the Grand Canyon in a glass-bottom helicopter, watching in awe as an angel in a biker gang's clothes guides me safely out of a dangerous flash mob, or communing with a blue heron at the side of a windy lake, when I think to myself, “This will make a great story.”
You will find these moments and more in my collection of short stories called The Chronicles of Erica.
I’m inviting you to take a peek into the interesting life of a regular gal like me.
Enjoy, laugh, shake your head, but please, try not to judge!
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I arrived at the lake in the afternoon under a cloudless sapphire September sky. When I opened the minivan door, a blast of brisk air hit my face. The wind was howling and constant. I spied white-capped wavelets on the water and sailboats in full sail scattered around the lake. I shivered, pulled a sweatshirt out of my bag in the back, patted my scuffed-up nine-foot kayak, and reconnoitered the area.
The lake was shaped like a boomerang, with three sides and the dock in the middle of the blustery chaos. The wind was hammering the two sections of the lake to my left and hitting the dock full throttle. To my right, the third arm was long and skinny, with ample trees to buffer the wind. Looked inviting, but I was no fool. As tempting as it was to enjoy the free ride while the wind pushed me down the length of the lake, I knew I’d have to get back to the dock under my own paddling power.
Not being the most well-versed in nautical arts nor fully educated on wind and water patterns, I decided to sit a while and watch what others were doing before heading out on the choppy water. Apart from the sailors in the little boats, no one knew what they were doing. There were kayakers stranded at the far end of the waterway, congregating in little groups, and parents in rowboats, clearly overwhelmed by the enormous effort to row their offspring back to shore. Determined to have a better outcome, I sat on a picnic blanket for an hour, studying the current and planning my route.
Despite my first hesitation, I decided I would launch from the dock and let the current take me to the lake’s end on my right. Then, I’d cross the pond at its skinniest point and hug the tree line on the far side, hoping the trees would block most of the wind. Once past the dock on the opposite shore, I’d venture out from the haven of the treed shoreline and let the wind push me across the water, delivering me to the dock like a letter slipped into a mailbox. Simple.
Smiling to myself, I cast off. What a lovely ride—the rush of air at my back, nearly taking my hat for a whirl. The sight of tall purple marsh grass ahead of me, bending in unison, like slender apostolates in flowing robes bowing as one before an altar. Little wavelets lapped at their heels. Majestic sugar maples and red oaks hugged the shoreline and waved hello in the gale. The sky was disorienting—so brilliantly blue and seemingly still—never betraying the fact that the air between us was full of action and frantic movement. If only my heart could be as steady and true as the September sky. But it wasn’t.
My smile disappeared as my boat sped up, and the realities of my hectic life intruded. Tears spilled as I contemplated the complexities of God’s will versus my own, the mistakes I’d made, and the painful consequences that haunted my life. Shaking myself loose of heavy thoughts as I drifted past a few large boulders, I surveyed my surroundings. I was close to the end of the pond. Time to cross.
I paddled easily to the far side of the lake, passing the marooned kayakers, beaming with pride that my plan was working. It was lovely on this side, sheltered from the wind. I rested in the stillness of a little cove—protected from the draft by an outcrop of land that jutted into the lake. The dock seemed a thousand miles away. I planned to paddle around the outcrop and continue along the shoreline to overshoot my destination. I rested in the haven and watched the other kayakers attempt their return trip.
It was a sad sight. Paddling with ferocity, they didn’t move an inch in the face of the wind. They took a break every few minutes, only to be pushed back to the far shoreline again. I took a swig from my water bottle, adjusted my ballcap, and chuckled. “Silly folks—you thought you knew what you were doing. Should’ve planned ahead.” With one last look at the sky, I turned my boat and paddled toward the outcrop. I could see the whitecaps to my left across the open expanse of the widest section of the lake. Time to go.
I rounded the corner of the jutting land that had sheltered me during my respite, prepared to slip around it and continue my journey—easy as pie—but a blast of wind stopped me dead. I paddled with all my might and didn’t move an inch. My heart skipped a beat, and I broke into a sweat. This wasn’t part of my plan. . .
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