Poetry About Kayaking in the San Juan Islands

The kayak slips from the beach before morning wind troubles the channel. Each paddle stroke opens a dark oval and closes it behind us. Cedar islands rise low and green from the Salish Sea. A harbor seal watches with the calm suspicion of a local resident. Tide tables matter more than confidence between these rocky shores.

Cedar islands rise low and green from the Salish Sea. Far off, a whale's exhale briefly marks the horizon. We keep distance, lower our voices, and let the wild route remain wild. Current turns effort sideways while the bow keeps correcting. Travel at water level makes every island feel newly discovered. The body keeps paddling in memory after the shore is still.

The kayak slips from the beach before morning wind troubles the channel. Tide tables matter more than confidence between these rocky shores. Fog shortens the world to breath, compass, water, and the next bright blade. Current turns effort sideways while the bow keeps correcting. By afternoon, the boats rest upside down above the tide line. The body keeps paddling in memory after the shore is still.