The thought never even crossed my mind.
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Until it became a possibility.
The day before we left the office to go kayaking on Portage Lake, Rebecca taught me the essentials of Alaska kayaking: what to wear, how to steer the bow, how much time I had if I fell into the lake before hypothermia set in (three minutes, depending).
“Do kayaks tip?” I asked.
“No,” said Rebecca.
But a member of the sales staff who had been nearby said to Rebecca, “She should know.”
“They do tip, but you really have to—” Rebecca shook the air, as if trying to rattle a kayak.
Melissa turned toward me. “You’re not a tippy person, are you?”
I stared at her. I don’t know.
Melissa said to Rebecca, who was already down the hall. “Just don’t kill the intern, please!”
The next morning Rebecca and I stopped at the office to grab some camera equipment. She went for the camera, while I leaned stiffly against a wall near the editorial staff, bound by four layers of clothes. They were giving me more advice.
“Watch out for sea lions,” said Serine. “They’ll try to bump your bow.”
“And killer whales,” said Jim. "They get right under you."
“And aliens,” said Serine.
I tried to pick out the jokes.
Rebecca returned, and we headed out of the building.
“Don’t kill the intern, Rebecca!” someone shouted behind us. This didn’t faze me anymore, since everyone had been saying this at the office lately.
... But I still wondered, Joke?
At Portage Lake, Rebecca and I unloaded the kayaks near two big blue icebergs. The lake seemed calm enough, even though a cold breeze was blowing at us. Rebecca gave me a push off the shoreline, pushed herself off in her own kayak, and we were in.
Waves surrounded us immediately. A strong one tugged my paddle. Another one lifted me up and I sat patiently, waiting for it to put me down. Rebecca started making headway toward the glacier, so I swallowed my fear and put the paddle back in the water.
Don’t lag behind, Intern.
That was mostly my only thought. But also I remembered something Tim Woody had told me at the start of my internship:
"You won't be making coffee here."
I was paddling as hard as I dared, admittedly ignoring where my bow faced. That is, until the kayak heaved up, and I was suddenly staring sideways into deeper-than-I-cared-for dark water. I put the bow straight and looked up, only to be amazed at Rebecca who was making progress far ahead. For a few minutes I tried to catch her, but when I looked up again to guage where she was, she had stopped in some black rocks. The waves had flung her ashore there—onto a fairly hairy shore.
Rebecca—a longtime Alaskan with years of experience taking on the harsh conditions of the Bush—then said this to me:
“Head back!”
Don’t need to tell me twice.
I turned around, and we met back at the end of the lake where we had started. It was neither sea lions nor killer whales, nor aliens that had put a stop to our plans that day. It was the waves we had known would be there. The lake wouldn’t have us that day, or else it would have us in a way we didn’t want.
Rebecca and I tied the kayaks to the car, and headed out for safer diversions for the day. Something that—probably—wouldn’t get us killed.
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