I am an only child.
While there are plenty of things I wish I'd experienced had I grown up with siblings, there are innumerable gifts that my parents gave me as an Only. One was the gift of travel. I saw so many incredible places that my friends (and my own 3 children) have only dreamed of.
The other was the gift was that, for better or worse, I was allowed to pursue my interests. From the time I could walk, I was a collector. Not normal things like records or dolls or stamps. Nope. I had what was simply called, "my collection".
I wanted to be an archaeologist, you see, and I had an uncanny ability for spying treasures among piles of rocks or hidden among leaves. As a result, our basement was filled with skulls, insect carcasses, arrowheads, and fossils...all of which were lovingly curated, labeled and archived in a meandering exhibit that began at the foot of the stairs and wound about most of the perimeter of the cinderblock walls. Any adult family friend or relative who came to visit was treated to a private subterranean tour of Andrea's Collection.
At age 10, I spent 3 weeks at bug camp where I became completely enamored with camping, hiking, wildlife and the outdoors. This is where my parents' love for their only child and her peculiar interests reached well beyond the scope of anything I could ever envision as I parent my own children. My mom and dad never discouraged me, but instead fully embraced my oddities.
Being an avid traveler, steward of her only daughter's budding interests, and a generally adventurous person, my mother decided that it would be a good idea to book a wilderness camping trip for our family. In Alaska. And this is how one of my most unpleasant, yet formative childhood memories took hold.
Alaska
Fast forward and rewind to August 1989. We are 5 days into an 8 day wilderness camping trip and we are in the middle of the vast and icy waters off of the Gulf of Alaska. I am 11. Mom, Dad and I have been sharing a tent for 5 days, which is the same number of days that it has been raining.
This is not only a wilderness camping, but also a sea kayaking trip. We were brought by charter boat to a small island in Prince William Sound, with along with our guide, her sister and their two lithe little kayaks. There is additional olive green winnebago-style kayak to hold my family of 3, along with the innumerable gear for our expedition. The charter captain departed with a cheerful "see you in 8 days" and thus our trip began.
On the first night, we were advised to hang our rain gear outside the tent to "air it out," and that is when the first rains came. 5 days in, our gear is saturated and has been since the first night.
By day, we broke down our tent from the night before, loaded up the kayak, and set off for a new island within Prince William Sound to explore. We had some incredible encounters with bald eagles soaring over the cliffs. At sea, we spotted blue-gray whales, their bodies curved so intimately over the waves that they seemed to be part of the swells themselves. Each morning, brilliantly-colored sea stars gathered along the shore in tidal pools, shimmering beneath the water like crimson suns with dozens of rays.
Now, though, the rain drips from the brim of my hood, down the front of my neck and into my clothing, which smells like a wet dog. On all sides, I see murky brown waves; no land. My mom and dad are exchanging words as they try in vain to steer the kayak, which bobs helplessly like a drunk albatross on the waves. Most urgently, I have to pee.
I focus inward and outward at the same time, almost becoming those raindrops dripping from the tip of my nose, running down my neck, into my clothing and settling on my throbbing kidneys. 32 years later, I can remember these sensations as immediately as the present. At this moment, unable to focus on anything but my own misery, I make a bargain with myself.
Never again.
No matter what unfolds in the rest of my life after I get out of this kayak, I will never again feel this sensation of inner and outer helplessness and despair. This is it: this is the present. Cold, insufferably wet, and pounding bladder. No land in sight and days left in this journey in the wilderness. Completely beyond the realm of my control.
So, at age 11 in that little boat bobbing upon those vast waves, I promised myself: If I can push through the present and beyond this tiny little moment in the great expanse of my life, I will stay in control.
Right here, right right now: this is the worst that it will ever be.
At the time, I thought "never again" meant I would never again put myself in uncontrolled situations. No more cold. No more camping. No more discomfort. And for a long time, I did seek comfort and stopped taking risks.
What, then, of the marathons? The ultramarathons? The 3 unmedicated births, innumerable surgeries and more recently, the ice swims? How could I seek comfort while choosing to do these things?
As I look back, I realize that my paradigm shifted in that kayak. It was a mindset. I made a decision that I would never again BECOME my misery. No matter what happens, no matter the difficulties I encounter, I will not be in this place again. Never again was a mindset, and I have kept my bargain.
and the beat goes on.....
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