As a young boy I read a book by John Steinbeck called Log from the Sea of Cortez. At the time I had no idea John Steinbeck was considered one of the world’s greatest living writers, and I wondered how one could tell an interesting story about a log, so that’s why I bought the book.

It was the story of two friends who spent six weeks on a small boat collecting marine specimens from the coast of Baja Mexico, and the first time I had ever seen the word “littoral.” It is an overused cliché to say a book changed one’s life, but we all know they do, and this one certainly helped to change mine.

It was unusual reading for a boy of seven whose friends were into Superman or Green Lantern, while I was transfixed by Steinbeck’s description of life just below the surface, an entire world as it were, that occupies this exotic sounding littoral. Sea slugs, limpets, hermit crabs and snail darters were as fascinating to me as aliens from another planet, and they were just inches from where I lived.

The water was not deep enough for diving and I felt a bit foolish walking around bent over with a face mask on, but then I saw my first kayak and a light turned on.

It seemed like a very cool way to get along over the water, and made the connection (in my own unformed mind) of why Steinbeck had referred to it as a log! Imagine how stupid I felt when I finally finished the book. Thinking back on it now, I may have been the very first “nerd” kayaker and to this day some of my paddle buddies tease me about paddling a log.

The littoral is a transitional zone where my world of dry land meets that of creatures who dwell just beneath the sea, in the shallow coming together of two separate realities, and where strange beings thrive in both air and water. The littoral is the area between tidal exchanges that occur twice daily, thus alternating between wet and dry and making the area one of the most challenging spots on earth in which to exist. That also makes it a great spot to paddle.

Few of us know the paths our lives will take at a young age, and I had no idea at the time how that book and the word littoral would dominate my world for years.

Since that time I have not only become a certified marine naturalist, but an avid kayaker who has paddled the rim of fire from southern Alaska to the southernmost tip of Baja. I have divided most of that time between studying cetaceans and the littoral, and more than once have been surprised to find them together.

I have friends who are into long-distance paddling, making regular crossings of the Santa Monica Channel, where I live, to Catalina Island and back, a 30-mile-plus paddle, and they love to tease me about being a sissy paddler, hugging the coast instead of testing my mettle against the raging sea, and I am fine with that.

While they are fighting rolling seas and headwinds, I am learning behavioral habits of tiny creatures most of the world does not even know exist.

For me the most interesting paddling has always been in coastal waters for numerous reasons. First of all is clarity. Even in waters clouded by pollution, wave action usually keeps the littoral clear. It is a simple matter of positioning to keep the sun’s illumination at the correct angle that allows me to paddle over what amounts to my own private aquarium. I have spent hours floating in one spot while a veritable metropolis of life goes about its business mere feet from my station.

Watching my own shadow pass over the ocean floor was my first lesson in how some littoral dwellers run for cover at the first sign of a predator from above while other certain small fish use a shadow as cover, hiding beneath my boat. It is how I learned that crabs will pick up a shell and use it as a shield if caught in the open, and how I first realized a sting ray will strike out at a shadow, possibly giving the answer to the death of naturalist and television personality Steve Irwin.

It was the clear littoral that first allowed me to witness the lightning speed with which a sea star can attack its prey, devouring it in seconds as one of the oceans top predators in spite of its diminutive size, and how I first saw anemones extending their barbed lances in defense of my shadow passing overhead.

A kayak has been both transport and tool for my entry to this world, allowing me to glide silently past, absorbing it while not intruding upon it.

My kayak has served as a resting platform for exhausted sea birds, landing on my deck for a breather, and more than once a baby eagle has sought refuge there to get away from a relentless mother intent on teaching it to fly. Being part of their natural environment has allowed me to observe sea birds in a way impossible through books.

I once found myself inundated with anchovies jumping out of the water. Many landed on my deck followed closely by a very aggressive pelican who had trouble differentiating between the silver delicacies and my fingers. I can also say that pelicans are very ungainly while walking the deck of a kayak!

On two separate occasions I have had to fend off frightened sea lions attempting to board me while being pursued by orcas, and for those who may think this a violation of the Marine Mammal Protection Act, I can honestly say I have always paid it heed, never invading an animal’s comfort zone, but allowing their own innate curiosity to bring them to me. Harbor seals are regular companions and sea jellies often collect on my paddle blades.

To most creatures I am simply an errant log being carried along by the tides. Not like Steinbeck’s log, but a log nevertheless.

I have had dolphin swim next to my boat in three feet of water and playfully chew on my bungee, and have watched young gray whales frolicking in the surf line less than twenty yards from human surfers.

More than anything, I have had close contact with gray whales who, being the slowest swimmers of the cetacean world, hug the coastline during their annual 12,000-mile migration from Alaska to Mexico using natural rock formations, kelp beds and wave-stirred sand as cover to evade their natural predator, the orca.

Most people think little happens within the surf line but I have found it to be a place of non-stop action, and on a good day I find myself wondering why every paddler on the water is not hugging the shore.

Yes, I do venture out into the open ocean for prolonged paddles, sometimes for a week at a time, but while most paddlers are intent on reaching a destination, for me it is the journey that is more important, and it is always the ever-changing coastal world that is the dessert to the meal.

To visit James Dorsey’s website, visit www.jamesdorsey.com