Feel the Wild

by Fox, Daniel; Fox, Daniel;

  Sunrise, Patagonia, Argentina

  ISO 100, 350mm, ƒ/32, 1.0s

  Brown Pelican, Sea of Cortez, Mexico

  ISO 320, 70mm, 0 ev, ƒ/5.6, 1/1250s

  Elegant Terns, Sea of Cortez, Mexico

  ISO 200, 300mm, ƒ/5.6, 1/400s

  S + S = C + P

  Solitude and Silence = Clarity and Perspective

  The morning starts with a gentle breeze. The sun peeks above the horizon and begins its ascent into a cloudless blue sky, flooding the air with warmth, fuelling invisible particles of oxygen and nitrogen with heat that causes them to swirl and form the wind that would later slow my progress. This transition from darkness to light, this dance between the sun and the earth, is affecting everything – the air, the ocean, the animals, the plants and me.

  This planetary movement is intricately linked to the complex biological process that is happening in my body. My eyes are opening after a long sleep, a ritual that has been fine-tuning itself for thousands of years. The level of melatonin in my blood is decreasing as the cortisol is increasing. It is believed that this event is linked to the hippocampus as it prepares to face the stresses of the day. My lungs are expanding with vigour, flooding my blood cells with oxygen and energizing my muscles – the same muscles that later will push against the wind.

  Every part of my body is awakening. Slowly, I become more in tune with my surroundings. I feel my existence on this planet connected to the universe. Despite my physical individuality, despite my body occupying a single space in time, the atoms that form my skin, my bones, my brain and my heart, these neutrons and protons of which I am made, don’t belong to me. They have existed since the beginning of time. In fact, my inner core, my biological roots have more in common with the stars; we are their children. I can feel the cosmic energy within being stirred by stars millions of miles away, by the moon’s gravity and by the unknown forces that control the solar system. How is it possible to believe that life revolves around us?

  After cooking breakfast, sipping yerba maté and packing the gear into the kayak, I walk into the sea and pull the kayak off the beach. With a quick jump, I maneuver myself into the cockpit and start to paddle. Looking back one last time, I offer my goodbyes to an imaginary host – a customary practice I do every time I arrive and depart a destination, paying my respects to a place that doesn’t belong to me, honouring the hospitality I humbly received. In that same manner, I ask the ocean permission every time I travel its realm. It is not a religious belief but rather the understanding that my future is in the hands of Nature.

  With every paddle stroke, my thoughts, my worries, my wishes, my struggles, my joys and my pains are stripped away, leaving me naked but with clarity and perspective.

  The clear blue sky has become swamped with hundreds of white smudges, much like freckles on summer skin. The peaceful clarity of the morning is gone, now replaced with a kind of orchestrated chaos. Pelicans fly everywhere, diving on baitfish while being harassed by seagulls that trail them like leeches. Rays of all different sizes jump out of the water mysteriously, giving the impression that the sea has turned into a giant whack-a-mole game. High-flying frigate birds stalk the passing blue-footed boobies, waiting to swoop in and steal their catch. Turkey vultures glide effortlessly, counting the days for the nearby sea lion carcass to reach its perfectly decomposed state.

  My kayak is being pulled into this cacophony. The water is chaotic and I feel as if I am riding a mechanical bull. Think of one of the busiest road intersections in your city and desynchronize the traffic lights. That is how the water is. On one axis, there are the waves bouncing off the cliff and pushing right back against the others that follow behind, and on the other axis, there is the wind head butting the current.

  Hours later, I am back on land. The beach is made of creamy white sand. Powdery granules made of crushed shells and limestone that eroded over millions of years. Moved by the tides, currents and wind, slowly and gradually pushed up against the shore, grain after grain, to now form the soft cushion on which I rest. This quiet little place on the westerly side of Isla Espíritu Santo, just outside La Paz in Baja California Sur, is tucked between two long cliffs made of a multitude of volcanic ash layers, a product of the Miocene epoch. Like a pair of blinkers on a horse, these mineral fingers that advanced far into the water, protecting this tiny oasis, are also preventing me from seeing the vastness of the Gulf of California. My view of this giant interior sea is reduced to a sliver of emerald water.

  But it doesn’t matter. After its daily journey overhead, the sun is about to disappear behind the horizon and is painting the sky with deep hues of orange, pink, red and purple. Had there been no clouds but a perfect empty sky, the sunset would have still been enjoyable, but it would have lacked zest. There would be no luminous, colour-filled performance, just a general fading of light accompanied by a possible green flash and some orange left over at the end. Following a tumultuous day, the sunset is feeding on the same energy and chaos I witnessed earlier, turning the sky into one of the most spectacular shows ever seen. Beauty is rising from the depths of madness.

  After such a memorable spectacle, the wind is barely rolling over the water and the fluffy colourful silhouettes above are moving away. The night is taking hold and bringing along all it possesses. Venus, Jupiter, Vega, Arcturus and Regulus are the first to appear in the sky. In another hour, this black ceiling will be packed with billions of white dots.

  I lie on the beach and let the world sink in and my thoughts disappear. The silence takes over and I stare at the night sky and know, just as I witnessed earlier when I saw only a sliver of the sea, that I am viewing only a tiny fragment of the universe.

  There is so much out there. How is it possible to think so highly of ourselves when faced with such inexplicable beauty and mystery? Why do we feel insecure about our evolutionary identity? Why is it a challenge to find comfort in the knowledge and humility that there are things bigger than us? Having no significant importance in the larger scheme of the universe doesn’t mean we have no meaning in life. It means that, ultimately, we matter for a moment, for the ones around us. It is important, but in the end the atoms we borrowed are returned and the only things left are memories and legacies. It is unfortunate for the ones who have passed, but it is to the benefit of the ones who will come. Even they will fade away with time and make space for the future to bloom.

  The chaos of life is necessary. The frenzy of our culture indeed has a creative purpose, a certain value, but clarity and perspective are also important. They happen when solitude and silence are present, and these concepts can happily exist together, with balance as the ultimate goal.

  In our multitasking culture, every waking hour can be filled with endless distractions. We can find ourselves relentlessly connected to our technological devices. Alone times are becoming rarer, leaving us without the capacity to delve and think deeper, so we remain mired in the shallowness of 140 characters. More than ever, we must find the time to Stop, Breathe, Relax, Listen.

  S + S = C + P (Solitude and Silence = Clarity and Perspective)

  Baja California, Sea of Cortez, Mexico

  ISO 250, 18.5mm, ƒ/8,1/1000s

  Sea of Cortez, Mexico

  ISO 100, 18mm, ƒ/13, 1/4s

  Find

  Your Peace

  in

  Nature

  Self Portrait, Pacific Coast, Washington

  ISO 500, 12mm, ƒ/11, 0.5s

  Chubut Coast, Patagonia, Argentina

  ISO 400, 300mm, ƒ/7.1, 1/250s

  Tension

  It is a stormy day. The winds are blowing hard from the Pacific. Dark clouds that loom over my head in a threatening manner now obstruct the sky, which was blue and limitless yesterday. The ocean, which was calm and smooth only 12 hours ago, is now pounding on the rocks with fury and a thunderous crash. Amid this ch
aotic landscape, seagulls and terns glide with ease; a tip of a wing there, and one bird zooms across only inches above a breaking wave. These creatures have truly mastered the art of moving through the air, riding the invisible currents with finesse and grace.

  They move and exist because of a fundamental law of physics: tension. They wouldn’t exist without it. The bird would fall; its feathers would disappear. It is tension that keeps them together. It is tension that makes these birds fly.

  Just like the tree that stands tall, the sail that holds the wind, the rock on which I am sitting, the legs that carry me, the beating of my heart, the sound of my voice and the neurons firing in my brain. This planet that hosts me, and this sun that warms me – each fundamentally exists out of tension, at an intersection, a place where a force ends and another begins.

  Tension is Nature; it is life. It is the DNA of everything that is; it creates energy. It is movement and resistance. It is creation and destruction. It is a pause through which life emerges, and the absence of it is death.

  Life is a dynamic journey filled with endless forces. Some of those you will see coming, others will leave you in shock. The goal is not to avoid the resulting tensions but rather to move with them, accept them, embrace them, flourish with them and understand their necessity and power of transformation.

  Stronger

  It had taken me two weeks to paddle out of the San Juan Strait and down Washington state’s Pacific coast. Sometimes covering 50 to 65 kilometres a day, 10 to 12 hours straight in a kayak because of super long stretches of beaches with huge breakers that made it impossible to land. I was now in Astoria, this Oregonian city located in protected waters on the banks of the Columbia River. The forecast for the next couple of weeks was really not great at all. A storm was expected. The mouth of the Columbia is known as the “Graveyard of the Pacific.” It is a treacherous, dangerous and infamous place to go through, even on good days, so imagine on stormy days. The morning weather was perfect for a departure. There wasn’t a cloud in the sky nor was there wind. It was the best the northern Pacific coast can offer!

  The plan was simple. Leave on the outgoing tide. Ride the ten-kilometre-per-hour current out to the ocean. Avoid the monstrous standing waves that are formed when this tremendous mass of water rushes out. Paddle 3.5 kilometres out and clear the jetty, this long cement and rock wall that sticks out of the water and makes it easier for boats to come in and out of the river. Then reassess. Depending on the conditions, I could either continue to my next waypoint, or I could use the jetty as protection, paddle back to shore and set up camp. Or I could wait for the tide to change and go back to Astoria. With no winds and a clear sky, the conditions were way too nice to go back. Following the jetty back to the beach was also not an option. There was an extremely pleasant three-to-five-metre ocean swell that was really soothing on the open ocean but turned into a thunderous wall of destruction close to shore. The swell was coming west and the jetty offered no protection at all. So I decided to continue on my journey south, paddling to my next scheduled stop: Seaside.

  Eight hours later, I am still out on the ocean. The swell has not come down a bit. Looking through my binoculars, I can see my landing site is being hammered by crashing waves. The sun is about to set and honestly the moment is extremely enjoyable. With the cradling motion of the ocean and the beautiful sunset, it’s hard to take seriously the precarious predicament I am in. There is a place a few miles ahead, and I know that behind is a little bay that offers protection. By the time I get there it will be dark, but the sheltered water will offer me safe landing. So I keep paddling, watching the sun disappear below the horizon to my right, while to my left, the sound of destruction is keeping me at bay.

  The night starts to set in and I am having an amazing time. The sky is filled with stars. The Milky Way feels intense and imposing. A shooting star crosses the sky, then another. Bioluminescence from the plankton bloom glows brightly, turning each paddle stroke into an explosion of glitter. Each drop of water scintillates as it falls on the kayak. My boat leaves stark glowing white trails on the black surface. I wonder for a second if I really want to get to shore. I idealize the prospect of spending the night paddling. Thinking to myself: “If I have to do this, these are the perfect conditions.”

  I have been on the water for about ten hours. I check my phone for my location. The cove is only about a kilometre away now. I will be there around 9 p.m. I find myself fantasizing about a calm night landing and staying up late photographing this magical luminescent evening after a nice dinner under the stars.

  I am rounding the point, heading to what I hope will be a campfire with warm food, my tent ready for a great night’s sleep. But I am shocked. Somehow the ocean swell is coming around and hitting the bay full force. Damn! The gravity of the situation hits me in the guts. This place is the only protected beach within a 30-kilometre radius. I am tired and hungry. I have snacked my way through the day and haven’t had anything for dinner. The weather is supposed to change during the night, with 10-to-15-knot winds coming from the south and I really don’t want to be on the water when that happens. I have to find a way to get to shore. I remember from the map some massive rocks that could guide and protect me. It is pitch dark and I can’t see a thing. I can hear the surf crashing left and right. I know where the beach is, that’s about it. My GPS is the only tool that gives me a precise sense of place. The little glowing device screen shows me this tiny triangle, surrounded by white nothingness, with pixelated darker lines at the top of the screen representing the shoreline, giving me a sense of direction but bizarrely rendering this extremely dangerous reality into an insensitive and merciless two-dimensional geometric miniature chart.

  I am slowly paddling forward, into the dark, much like when you walk into a room at night, your arms in front of you, trying to feel the obstacles before they hit you, when suddenly I hear this loud rumble behind me. Before I can do anything about it, the wave crashes on me with such force that it breaks my paddle in two as if it were a toothpick. I capsize and manage to roll back. Another wave hits and capsizes me again. Now I can’t find my way back up. The water is damn cold! Even with my drysuit, the cold seeps in within seconds. My face feels like it just landed on the back of a porcupine. I am upside down in the water, and my eyes are closed. My hands reach forward and I pull on the kayak skirt. I slide out of the boat. I don’t know what is next or if I have time, but I don’t have the luxury of waiting to find out. I need to get out of here fast.

  Alone in the dark, floating in a furious ocean, I wonder for a second if any swimmers have been attacked by great white sharks at night here. I roll the kayak upside up, perform a re-entry in the flooded cockpit, grab my spare paddle and start paddling as hard I can, away, into the night. Once further out and clear from the surf, I grab the water pump and start pumping frantically. I am sitting in a pool of ice and have no desire to turn into a Popsicle. To make matters worse, the storm has arrived. (Great, just great.) All I need are strong headwinds to push me back into the kill zone. This is not good at all. There is no other way to say it, but I am in deep trouble. I don’t have any choice but to paddle. I would barely make any progress, if any at all, but at least I would keep myself warm and focused on a single task: keeping it together. It is interesting how, in those moments, your mental sight narrows down. You start ignoring the pain and your brain goes into binary mode: alive/not alive, possible/not possible, good/bad, forward/backward.

  After what seems an eternity in purgatory, I look to my left and am amazed to see a campfire on the beach – and it is really close. A bit further up the beach, I see lit-up windows from a series of houses. In the midst of this chaos, my mind drifts slightly and I imagine the people behind those windows enjoying a glass of wine, kissing their children good night, oblivious to the drama unfolding in front of their properties. A scary and sad feeling appears, being so close to people yet so separated from them. Here I am, in a totally diff
erent world, where my life and existence are on the verge of being in question. How can this be possible, to find such extremely different realities so near one another? I feel isolated, as if I were behind glass and could see everyone. I could hear them, but no one could see or hear me. However hard I banged on the glass, I remained invisible.

  The thought is crushed away quickly as a gust of wind blows me back to reality.

  I am paddling resolutely. I start hallucinating. I can’t really tell the difference between the dark water and the night sky. Everything is blurry and at every couple of strokes I come close to falling over because I am paddling the air as opposed to the water.

  Then the moment I am dreading the most materializes. I get the chill. I have now been on the water for 13 hours. My heavy breakfast of oatmeal has already been fully processed into energy a very long time ago. My lunch snack can barely survive as a memory, and my dinner turned out to be an empty promise. I am exhausted. My blood sugar is low. That unexpected swim earlier shook my core temperature. I am not that big and I know my body. Once I get a chill, I don’t have much time before everything snowballs out of my control. My strokes are barely keeping me warm. Between each of them, the chill comes back. I can’t even think of taking a break without my body starting to shake. I have to get to shore one way or another. Worst-case scenario, I jump out of the kayak, swim to shore and leave the boat to go wherever the storm wants to take it. In the end, it is only gear, mostly sponsored. It is not worth my life. Had the wind been pushing me offshore, that is probably what I would have done. But right now I decide to take my shot and paddle straight through those breakers from hell and onto the beach.