I have two treasured memories of Alaskan kayaks. One is of watching a distant speck backed by a snowy peak, grow into a kayak paddled by two young women singing a sweet, simple, soul-stirring verse.
The other is of a guided paddle in Prince William Sound. My daughter Katie and I zigzagged along correcting our overcorrections, wondering how the guides managed to whiz by without a wobble. We wished we could get a better look at the occasional brown bumps across the bay, almost certainly otters. But the beauty of the scene overpowered any feelings of frustration. Before we finished I’d decided that I would talk to Santa about a kayak.
Katie and I took my kayak out a few days ago, setting a course as straight and true as Snoopy’s Woodstock tends to fly, and steering up another beautiful memory.