smile, then spins on his board to catch the next wave.
How hard can it be? I think to myself.
Turns out, pretty hard. There is a big difference between surfing near shore and heading out into open ocean in a narrow kayak. One week later, I am floating in a vast sea where there are sharks, shipping lanes, unpredictable winds, and massive waves to worry about. To make matters worse, the man Rick wants me to interview refuses to talk until we reach the island, twelve miles into the Pacific. Now I have to go. There is no turning back.
Paddling the kayak feels easy, but I am not going very far or fast. Still, I feel good. I’m pulling it off; no one in our group knows I am a rookie, I think.
“You’re holding the paddle upside down,” says a gentle voice.
The voice belongs to a guy with curly brown hair and a long beard. He slides his kayak next to mine, shows me how to hold the paddle, and doesn’t make a big scene.
“I’m Kurt,” he says. “I’m one of the kayak guides your interviewee hired; I’m here to help the group navigate the shipping lanes and shark-y areas.”
“Oh. Is this where they found the girl’s body last year, eaten by a shark?”
“Well, they’re not sure that the shark killed the girl. It may have snacked on her after the fact,” says Kurt. As if that makes it all better.
I start paddling fast toward the island. I have a sudden urge to reach land.
“Let’s take a compass bearing first, Speedy,” Kurt jokes.
Meanwhile, the man I am supposed to be interviewing is far ahead of us, working with another guide. There’s no chance we can talk now. I realize that there is no way for me to reach him or land for several hours. Luckily, Kurt is here and wants to talk.
“So is it true? Are the poles really going to switch?” I say out of the blue. I read once that the Earth’s magnetic field inexplicably reverses itself sometimes, so that the north magnetic pole becomes the south.
I am hoping that someone who can navigate with a compass can reassure me about this event.
“Oh yeah. Pretty soon now,” Kurt says, without hesitation.
“But if we lose north, what will we set our compasses to?”
“Well, we may have to look south to find north,” he says with a mix of wonder and jest. A flock of pelicans glides by us, an inch from the sea’s surface, somehow never dipping their blue-gray wingtips in the ocean.
“Birds and whales migrate thousands of miles and they don’t rely on any one thing,” he continues. “They’ve blindfolded birds and attached magnets to their heads to scramble the magnetic field. The birds always make it home,” Kurt says.
“So they have something like a deeper, internal compass to guide them?” I ask.
“It seems like it. Or just multiple ways to locate themselves. Whales navigate through the arctic by bouncing calls off the undersides of the ice and listening for the echoes.”
“How do you know all this stuff?” I ask.
“I read maybe more than I should,” he smirks. “You know what I think about?” asks Kurt.
I shake my head.
“If the word compass means ‘all that surrounds us,’ then maybe we need to wander. We need to get lost to widen our perspective. Maybe it’s not about adjusting our instruments, but adjusting the way we look at things.”
I am falling for this boy’s mind. We paddle and talk easily. Four hours later, we land on a rocky beach on Anacapa Island, not much more than a seagull-infested rock in the ocean. After lunch, Kurt and his friend Scott hitch a ride on a ferry back to the mainland and leave us alone on Anacapa Island.
“Sorry, we have to get back to guide another group,” says Scott.
After they leave, I realize that I have no idea what Kurt’s last name is. I am sure I’ll never see him again.
Two days later, after I’ve finished the interviews, we paddle home. When I get back to my old, red, Subaru station wagon, there is bird shit all over the hood. There is also a parking ticket on the windshield. I rip the ticket off the window. On the back side of the ticket, a phone number is scribbled in black Sharpie with the words, “Let’s go for a walk in Cold Spring canyon!” It is signed, “Kurt.” The invitation makes me feel curious, but vulnerable. Who goes for a walk with a stranger in a canyon? Then I remember how gentle Kurt was on the water, and how kind.
On my first date with Kurt, I sit near the creek and read poetry while he scrambles up rock faces easily, lightly, looking for birds. He tells great stories of which he is never the center of attention. We go on a few more hikes together. We lose track of time, identifying animal tracks, plants, and bird songs. Then one day, he cuts his hair and shaves the beard off and it is as if I am seeing him for the first time. He has gorgeous eyes. We find shade in secret caves and discover how well our bodies fit together.
“Here, I made you something,” Kurt says. He hands me a brown, woven bracelet.
“What is it made out of?” I ask.
“Dogbane fibers. They are super strong. Want me to tie it on your wrist?”
“Sure,” I say. I find it exotic to be with someone who can make jewelry out of weeds.
It is dangerous falling in love with Kurt. On the one hand, he is brilliant, honest, and hilarious. On the other hand, he doesn’t seem to own shoes. For as long as I can remember, I have had a list of what makes the perfect partner. Fear says, “How can you fall for someone who doesn’t satisfy the requirements on that list?”
My list:
• 6’5
• Canadian
• Pacifist
• Ivy-League graduate
• Clean-shaven
• Outgoing, a people person
• Loves poetry
• Runs faster than me
• Goal-driven
• Ambitious
Kurt, when I meet him:
• 5’11
• American
• Ex-marine
• State-school graduate
• Shaggy, old-growth beard
• Likes animals more than people
• Doesn’t read poetry
• Hates to run, except on all fours like an animal
• Lives in a tent
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