"Kayaking on the Marsh Creeks"

Sydney M. Williams
October 4, 2010

Note from Old Lyme

Kayaking on the Marsh Creeks

“A river is more than an amenity, it is a treasure.”

Oliver Wendell Holmes (1841-1935)

“If there is magic on this planet, it is contained in water.”

Loren Eiseley (1907-1977)

On weekends, looking out at the Duck River, I see kayakers, at times in packs of a half dozen, other times alone. Some are obviously beginners, others old pros. They are young and old, men and women. They have in common a love of the marsh, a wish to be with nature, a desire for the outdoors and exercise, and a sense of serenity. Like Ulysses and the Sirens, but with no worries that I could be any more irrational than I already am, the kayakers lure me toward the water.

For almost twenty years I have been sculling along the broader reaches of these marsh creeks. However, in sculling from my floating dock I must accede to the tides, as the dock at low tide is mired in mudflats, and to the early mornings, for that is when the water is still, or nearly so. As a form of exercise, rowing, unlike kayaking, is almost Zen-like, using all muscle groups, requiring intense concentration, focusing on position and on each stroke – especially the moment where one has rolled forward, feathered the oars back, readying for the “catch”. A miscalculation can cause a rower to “catch a crab”, sending him tumbling into the water, an occurrence that has been my fate more than once.

Ten years ago my children gave me a kayak. I bought a second to keep it company, for kayaking, unlike sculling, can be a social pastime. And, it is possible to go out anytime, as long as the tide is in. Kayaks are small and maneuverable, allowing me to follow small creeks which connect the larger ones. On a warm late summer day I find myself alone on the water, marveling at the luck that has brought me to this place where we have a home, about two miles north of the mouth of the Connecticut River. In 1993, the Nature Conservancy designated this delta as one of forty “biologically important ecological systems” in the Western Hemisphere – known as “last great places”. It 1997 the entire Connecticut River was designated by President Clinton as one of America’s “Heritage Rivers”. More recently, the River’s estuary and tidal lands were listed as one of 1759 wetlands of international importance by the Ramsar Convention on Wetlands – and one of only 15 in the United States.

Other than kayakers what one encounters most often are crabbers, men and women drifting in row boats, their engines idling, as they drag up their traps laden, or so they hope, with Fiddler, Hermit or Blue Crabs. Their activity is pleasant and comforting to witness. It is an ancient rite, stretching back to the earliest settlers and to the Indians who preceded them.

In my kayak, I paddle silently, slipping past a pair of male Double-Crested Cormorant, wings extended in intimidation, while their lady friends sit near by; I approach an Eastern Mud Turtle, sunning himself (or herself?) on a log. As well, the sun warms my back. My double-bladed paddle moves slowly in a graceful arc, as quietly as is possible. Water Striders skim jerkily across the surface of slow moving creeks, searching for even smaller insects on which to dine. Unlike a scull, a kayak allows one to “smell the roses”, to let the mind wander, to think creatively. In this interlude with nature, New York and the turmoil of Wall Street seem distant.

My grandchildren enjoy a kayak outing. With one of my children, we take two of the little ones, donning life vests, making sure they are wearing bathing suits and walk to the river. They are small enough so that a grandchild fits on each lap. Rowing is a little less free, as my arms must extend in front of the child on my lap. While wary at first, the children soon love being in the kayaks and out on the water. Unaware of the need to maintain balance, however, the children twist and turn their bodies, shouting across the water at one another, urging their rower to move faster – turning our meandering voyage into a race. But it is delightful to observe them, as they listen to seagulls and watch ducks diving for dinner.

Once again, returning alone to the water it is easy to follow small marsh creeks and sense that one is alone in the universe, or that time has stepped back three hundred years. Sitting low in a kayak with marsh grasses at eye level and the only sound being the splash of your paddle, the call of a seagull, or the whisper of the breeze as it softly pulls back the Salt-Water Cordgrass, one can imagine what it might have been like for the first explorer.

While I love the company of others, and especially that of my family, in truth I am addicted to being alone, to silence and to the proximity of nature when I am on the water.