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. It was simple—I just had to get around this little lip of land. Surely I could get around this little hiccup? This wouldn’t stop me, right? What was the alternative? I had planned everything perfectly. I couldn’t cross the tumultuous lake in the face of that wind! Confounded, panic rising, I noticed something out of the corner of my eye.
A blue heron stood—regal at four feet tall—in the shallows to my right—a foot from the end of my paddle, which was now furiously scooping water with every stroke. The bird didn’t budge. He stood facing the wind— enduring—his long neck extended almost perpendicular to the water’s surface. His wings were tight against his sides, his legs planted in the murky waters. He was so intense in his stance that he hardly noticed me. His eyes were closed as if it took all of his concentration and might just to stand there and face it. Facts about the blue heron crossed my mind. That bird has, like, a seven-foot wingspan! Surely, he can cut through this wind! He was made to fly! I wanted to shout at him. “Go! Fly, you stupid bird! What are you doing here, suffering like this?!”
I asked myself the same question. But there’s no other way. My path was clear. My plan was supposed to work. But it hadn’t. And here I was. I pulled my oars out of the water, and the wind propelled me backward into the cove. I had tears in my eyes, and my nose was running. From the wind in my face, I thought at first. But no, that wasn’t true. I let myself drift to the shelter of the marshy shoreline. I rested. And I cried. I sobbed and looked up at the sapphire sky. I asked God all of my questions. Why? My life wasn’t supposed to turn out like this. How did I get here?
After a few minutes, my rage and emotion petered out, and I felt calm once more. The truth was, it didn’t really matter how I’d gotten to this point in my life. Here I was, and I had no choice but to take a difficult path. Either that or be marooned in my pain—stuck at the end of the lake.
Wiping the tears from my eyes, I pivoted the kayak and surveyed the choppy landscape before me. I looked to my left and saw the other boaters still working their way forward with tiny bursts of energy, only to have the strong current push them back. They were still trying to head directly into the wind. I didn’t feel so cocky now. My best-laid plans had come to naught, and I was in a similar situation—struggling to gain momentum, fighting against the elements that had blown through my well-ordered life, going backward, and losing hope.
I was on the far side of the lake, across from the dock, and I couldn’t get around the outcrop. I had no choice but to cut across open water at a diagonal to reach the shore. It looked daunting, but there was no other way. With one last glance at the quiet cove behind me, I tightened the straps of my waterproof phone holder, tied my sweatshirt around my waist, and plunged into the waves. Water lapped over the side of the boat immediately. I was hitting the waves broadside and was about to tip. I franticly adjusted course to cut the waves at a diagonal. The wind was epic. My little kayak went up and down with surprising force. I felt like a cork bobbing in the ocean. It was scary—and it was exhilarating.
With a yelp, I told myself to steady on. “You got this, girl. You got this.” I spoke to the wind.
I had no time to glance around and see how the other boaters were faring at the far end of the lake. It was all or nothing for me. Just keep paddling. Before I knew it, I’d made it to the other shore. The wind had pushed me back a few dozen yards, so I didn’t make the dock, but I was hugging the shoreline along the tall purple marsh grass. I dug in and paddled with all my strength until I reached a sandy bank near the dock.
Close enough. Arms burning, I let the wind push me ashore, sat back, and breathed an enormous sigh of relief. I’d made it. Was there ever really any doubt that you would? I smiled at the sky.
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Copyright © 2026 Author Erica Colahan - All Rights Reserved.
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