“Once again, on behalf Travelex and Penguin, congratulations!”
Original article won 1st place in an international travel writing competition and was selected by an editor at Penguin Random House. The article below has been edited and was first published to substack.
The winds had picked up again, whipping the ocean into a frenzy and made visibility difficult. It had been zipping through the area for a week previous to my arrival, brought a cyclone slamming against the coast, pulling up coral from its reef bed. A cyclone is an inward spiraling wind. The word itself, auspicious enough, means the coil of a snake. A force of nature often referred to as a ‘meteorological phenomenon’ and at that particular instance, paddling against the remnant winds, my mind spun with doubt. We had taken the kayaks out to spice up a lazy afternoon. Our adventure was proving to be an illogical attempt at flinging caution into a very angry breeze. The waves came sideways in quick choppy bits splashing over the front tip of the kayak blinding me with salty spray. I felt way out of my element which had become a norm on this trip so far. I still wasn’t sure what the hell I was doing on this desert-island-continent.
As gusts of wind booted us forward into a nose dive, rocking the boat through the dips and valleys of the waves I wondered at how quickly ideas can grow hairy legs and run away. We fell backward then forward with whiplash intensity and fought to stay on course. I thought of the titanic. I thought of how dramatic that sounded, even in my head. Reading those ‘lost at sea novels’ had always intrigued me, tickled my imagination, a country kid from a valley turned desert, the ocean was an anomaly to me until I was 12 years old. Now, it was an enemy. I pondered both my sanity and my ability to get out alive. Why didn’t I go with my original plan (which was Mexico by the way)? The current continued to force the nose of our kayak the opposite direction we paddled in. My shoulders burned worse than they usually did in Muay Thai class when the instructor forced me through three minute drills. I felt my arms shake and weaken. I felt my will question itself.
Land jutted out solid and forbidding. Mountainous rock turned sharply blocking our view of the beach. Without the destination in view, I felt a small quiver of panic light up on the crest of my belly. It was this outcropping, a ninety degree angle, that we were attempting to avoid while simultaneously turning around 360 degrees and praying for shore. Praying and paddling under intense duress is actually a useful way to not die. It creates a rhythm that the mind can focus on so the body can carry out orders like a machine -which it does, when life depends on it. To our left, further out in the sloshing waves, a mate’s boat tipped losing all paddles and picnic paraphernalia. That was my cue to ditch this grand discovery, “fuck this” I thought and decided I was going to jump straight into the gallows with this enemy and leverage my desperation by kicking us back to shore. Thankfully, I shared aloud my half-baked plan with my boat mate; a fiery-haired Brit with a proper accent. She promised to kill me herself if I didn’t stay in the “bloody boat.”
The water was a heavy weight champion and we were out in open ocean. The plight to make it over rough waves threatened to tip us, all the while the undercurrents worked against our every effort. We made so many circle turns to recorrect, point for shore; I nearly hurled my empty stomach overboard. Tears welled up in my eyes and mixed with the ocean spit. A second boat tipped and both friends scrambled to flip it and get out of the water as soon as possible. We were being sucked out with rapid acceleration. I was going to die at sea.
I imagined my little girl getting the news. It didn’t incite a montage of renewed vigor like in the movies. I wasn’t overcome with a Marvel moment infused with Wonder Woman power. I was overwhelmed instead with regret. The poignant reality of my denial of motherhood was peeking through. I was an escapist and jumped at every chance to feel like anything other than a single mother, doing it alone, going broke, looking broken.
To myself, I felt deeply irresponsible. I had intended to travel south of the border, sip margaritas very much on land, but I was in Australia. I was supposed to have been with a friend, but I was alone. It wasn’t supposed to be this expensive, yet I was out of money. Also, we were told by the island’s chief weather whisperer not to go out in the boats because the winds were still too dangerous. To my defense, I had not been present for this lecture. And, here we all were soaked, exhausted, scared speechless and running out of energy to fight back. It was just the night before we sat around the fire and told jokes about the salties; a crocodile that can swim in fresh water rivers as well as the ocean. This is why my boat mate ordered me to stay put. I learned of the water snakes that swarmed the little land mass to our north, close enough to throw a pebble. Water snakes and cyclones crowded my imagination.
The wind eventually died enough that we could redirect the front tip of the kayak, our friends caught up with us and we made a group effort to paddle the opposite direction, perpendicular to the current. When we touched land it was in fact, just like that movie montage where frames are captured slow motion and suddenly an anthem plays in the background so the audience is pulled in by the emotional win. We lived. After being caught in the currents for less than an hour we laid on the hot sand breathing deeply and feeling every ounce of stupid and maybe a little religious. Lost in my head, I began to articulate the travel story I would write…
“Set like an emerald stone in a delicate strand of seventeen other islands along the tropical Capricorn coast, this dollop of land was once home to the Whoppaburra people. The sands are painted with its histories, reds to brown, deep and dusty, orange and pink to near purple. The hills teach traditions offering secrets of lost cultures. You can see the ocean wrestle with color fading from deep azure blue to an electric turquoise. These islands freckle the Great Barrier Reef and make up a protected marine park that teems with wild noises and vibrant life. Butterflies swarm the islands this time of year filling the sky just above your head with spotted black and blue creating clouds of wing and shadow. Crows fill the trees like giant black berries and bats the size of hawks hang upside down to watch you wander. One might spend entire weekends hiking the islands interior eying the odd birds and sitting with the rich scenery, a pleasant appetizer for starving eyes. Australia has a strange magic and Great Keppel island a particular pull that has nothing to do with the terrifying ocean currents.”
Exhausted and from the safety of my tent I watched the sun slip into the ocean.
I had traced my curiosity up the Eastern coast of Australia seeking answers to questions I didn’t know I had. With swirling notions of purpose, strangely, the cyclone offered me direction. It seemed fitting for my life just then; a recovering perfectionist, second round- graduate student set on the precipice of a career with an unknown future. The swirling winds of chaos had become a homeopathic to my own. I was not aware of the salties, but have now encountered a handful of crocodile sightings while swimming in the oceans in Mexico.
I called my daughter when we returned to the village. No answer. A bit relieved, I would just let this be something I endured and leave it in the Coral Sea. Later, I would recall the boat ride that brought me to this island. The night I arrived, the moon had shone brightly on calm waters providing a path for the nose of the ferry; a pale yellow like the gold road that led Dorothy to the wizard.