Into a Headwind

The headwind never let up. Not a gust here and there, not some squall that blew through and passed. It leaned against us the whole way out. A headwind slows you down and keeps you from getting where you want to go.

My wife sat up front. Our son was tucked in the bow ahead of her, flat on his back in his life vest, watching the clouds go by like he didn’t have a single responsibility in the world.

I had the stern seat. The one with the steering blade and about two-thirds of the actual work. Every stroke had to do two jobs at once, push us forward and fight the wind’s attempt to spin us sideways. Everyone else got the lake. I got the lake and a low, constant negotiation with it that never once let up enough to enjoy the view.

I won’t pretend I loved that seat. There’s a particular kind of tired that comes from holding a line nobody else can feel you holding. You look at the people you love sitting up front, faces in the sun, not even glancing back to check if your arms are giving out, and something in you wants to be a little bitter about it.

But nobody in that boat asked me to grip the paddle that hard for that long. I put myself in the stern. I’m the one who decided the wind was something to be defeated rather than just paddled through.

I’d like to tell you I learned something out there, that I lifted the blade, let the wind have its way for a stretch, and found out the boat got along fine without me white-knuckling it the entire time. That’s not what happened. I held that line the whole way, arms locked, jaw set, like setting it down for even a minute would mean something came apart that I wouldn’t be able to put back together.

We landed exactly where we meant to. No one was waiting on shore to hear about it, no funny story about getting blown somewhere we didn’t plan. Just a straight line and a man who couldn’t lift his arms above his shoulders for the rest of the night. My wife noticed, but she didn’t say anything. Maybe because she’s been married to me long enough to know some battles I have to lose on my own time.

So, to the men still gripping the paddle too tight. I’m not writing this from the other side of having figured it out. I’m writing it from the dock, arms sore, wondering what would’ve happened if I’d just let the wind take us for ten minutes. Maybe next time I’ll find out.