Editorial: Slow Down and Smell the Water Lilies

October-November 1996

This is an article from WaveLength Magazine, available in print in North America and globally on the web.

by Alan Wilson

Cover photo: by Alan Wilson

Paddling is no way to get anywhere quickly. Aside from periodic bursts, most of us don't paddle at more than 3-4 knots for any distance. Yet we still tend to be preoccupied with reaching goals, undertaking expeditions to distant places, seeking that perfect island, exotic beach or challenging headland.

Despite the fact we know paddling is largely about process-that getting there is at least half the fun-we often find ourselves wrapped up with complicated logistics and small mountains of expedition gear, focused on achieving our end point.

Then comes the day when the wind blows too hard and the sea just isn't hospitable. We may find ourselves frustrated and impatient. Some may tempt fate and learn hard lessons (or worse). But usually such enforced layoffs yield unexpected pleasures as we explore shorelines and forest trails.

Not long ago, we had our plans thwarted by a stiff southeaster which had the seas rolling in menacingly. We looked at a couple of different put-ins and debated.

In the end we gave up on the sea, but driven by the urge to at least wet the hulls of our boats that day, we opted to look at a tiny lake which was shown on the chart.

It turned out to be tiny indeed, only a few acres in size, and I felt foolish launching our fully rigged ocean boats into this, this... puddle! We should have chosen real water. Here there was no challenge, no view, no nothing.

As we paddled slowly along the shore of this forested pond, I felt like an Indy 500 racer confined to a small go-cart track, doomed to go round and round... Yawn.

At least there were no mosquitoes, I noted, just dragonflies flitting here and there under the overhanging trees.

As we approached the end of the lake, the trees gave way to tall marsh grasses and we found ourselves in an area covered with lily pads which made light tracing sounds as our hulls slipped over them.

This was new to me. I'd paddled among forest-like kelp beds in the Queen Charlottes, but never in a lily pond.

The red lily stems which rose up from the black depths of the lake were stirred by our paddles as we gently propelled ourselves through them, leaving leaf-eddies in our wakes.

In no time at all we had toured the entire perimeter of the lake. We looked at one another and shrugged. What now?

Noticing a nearby fallen tree which had become colonized with seedlings, we paddled over to it and gazed in amazement at the miniature alder and cedar trees, and even wild strawberry plants, which were thriving there. I'd seen nurse logs in the forest, but never in a lake.

Near the log I noticed a bright yellow thing floating in a patch of lily pads. Drifting over to it we found a very perfect, very rubbery-looking lily blossom smiling up at us.

All around, mating dragonflies buzzed and hovered, blue and black striped wings clacking against one another. One landed on my boat. Another landed on the back of my hand and perched there motionless as I held the paddle poised in mid-air. Then off it flew.

Feeling a gentle breeze from behind, we held our paddles aloft and let ourselves drift effortlessly back towards the other end of the lake.

This time, as we approached the grass-bounded shore, I took a closer look at a jumble of branches we had passed on our first circuit. Paddling up to it, I suddenly recognized an order to this mound of mud and sticks and grasses. It was a beaver lodge!

We spent the next hour paddling ever so gently around and around the lake, seeing more at every turn-more insects, more plants, more life. Going nowhere but somehow going deeper. Marvelling at the profusion of things. Learning that the slower you go, the more you see. -AW