My Kingdom by the Sea

I found myself perched peculiarly atop a peninsula of pointy boulders in the Gulf of Mexico armed with only a kayak, a paddle, and my wits - the very same stupid wits that marooned me there in the first place. Maybe I should resign myself to living here, I thought while surveying my rocky, oceany kingdom. Maybe I can be the new lighthouse keeper. Or, since there is no lighthouse, maybe I’ll yell really loudly at boats.

"Hey...Hey boat! Turn around boat! There are rocks! Hey!

.......I'm so lonely."

But first, the beginning of the story. Some friends and I loaded into Blues Traveler on Friday morning and departed for Panama City Beach to spend the weekend at a large Mormon retreat swimming, camping, and significantly lowering the per capita blood alcohol level. It had been two years since I last saw the beach, and I was ready to unleash my paleness like a kraken on the shores of Florida.

“I AM THE DEVOURER OF SUNLIGHT! THERE WILL BE NO SURVIVORS!”

We arrived at our destination late that afternoon, set up our camp at St. Andrews State Park, and then went to a nearby church building for a dance. I had never been to a Mormon dance so far away from home, but it was nice to see that dances, just like the Church, are the same everywhere. I Cupid Shuffle’d with the best of them. I Cha Cha Slide’d my face off. I Cotton Eye Joe’d so hard that the local congregation wrote of my athleticism in sacred scrolls. The song choices might seem perplexing, but Mormons are suckers for line dances. Maybe we like the conformity.

After the dance we returned to St. Andrews State Park and walked the beach before heading to our campsites. I had borrowed a two-person tent from my brother, and it would have been perfect had there not been three of us. I was the last to retire, and not wanting to be the piece of ham in a man-ham sandwich, I opted to sleep outside the way St. Andrews, the Patron Saint of Mosquitoes, intended. I spent the night alternating between being an open bar for bloodsuckers and being completely covered by a blanket to the point where the heat from my body was showing up as suspicious activity on North Korean spy satellites.

The next day was beautiful, and it made up for the terrible night’s sleep. I had a great time throwing frisbee in the surf and walking down the beach with friends. The ocean was pleasant, the sand was fine, and there wasn’t a cloud in the sky or enough sunblock in Panama City to prevent my legs from turning the exact shade of red as the warning flags flying all along the shoreline. We heeded the flags’ advisory to avoid swimming in the ocean because of strong currents, but those flags didn’t mention nothin’ bout no kayaks! (I hope the previous sentence is one day used in court, verbatim, to establish a pattern of negligence in a case against the State of Florida).

We set out in a small flotilla from where the island comes to a rounded end, and we paddled left to head towards another island in the distance. I was surprised at how suddenly the calm waters turned aggressive as we left the shore, but I found the up and down of the rolling waves exciting. I tried to catch up to my friends, though they had started to scatter. After a few minutes I noticed we were pretty far to the right of our launching point, closer to the open expanse of the unending Atlantic. I called to my friends and paddled to correct course. And paddled. And paddled harder. “Haha, hey guys, I don’t think I’m going anywhere,” I said to whoever could hear me.

“Hey Frank, did you hear that? Kid said he’s not going anywhere…”

I looked over my shoulder to see that a few of my friends were now a football field behind me. We were definitely being sucked out into the ocean, away from both St. Andrews and our island destination.

I feel I should note here that I was never in any mortal danger. There were enough people and boats around that I could have yelled for help, but being the prideful man that I am, I was hoping to get out of this with minimal embarrassment. Still, I confess to a certain amount of anxiety.

Buckling down, I thrashed with my paddle against the current. After a couple of minutes I was not even an inch closer to the shore, but I was growing tired. To the left of me there was a jetty - a long barrier of giant rocks - and I knew that on the other side was a calm lagoon. I was able to cut diagonal across the current to the wall, steady my kayak, and rest as I looked for my friends. I could no longer see them.

I hopped out onto the bottom rock and started the slow, arduous task of portaging up the mound of boulders. I had to be very careful where I placed my bare feet on the rocks for grip, lest I found myself wedged in a jetty crevice wearing a kayak like a hat. Finally, I pulled my kayak to the crest and saw a fisherman standing below me on the other side of the jetty. We locked eyes, and I stood motionless as he tried to put me and my kayak into context. Civilizations rose and fell during our stare down.

“Hi.” I broke the silence like a middle school kid introducing himself on the first day of school. He continued to stare at me.

“Where’d you come from?” he asked in a deadpan. I pointed off in a vague direction and mumbled something about getting sucked out into the ocean. “Well,” he replied, not breaking eye contact, “do what you gotta do.” And with that he returned to fishing. It was as if I had climbed a mountain summit and he was the all-knowing guru, and the answer to all of life’s questions was “Do what you gotta do.” At that point I would have settled for a little help.

“Do what you gotta do….unless you’re trying to drag a kayak across a jetty. 

Then you should probably just give up.”

I bumbled down the rock slope, taking great care not lose my balance or my kayak in the process. By this time my friends Signe and Janessa were on the lagoon side, and they helped steady my kayak as I jumped back into calmer waters. It was smooth sailing from there. I learned that a couple of my friends had been picked up by boats and returned to the beach. “What about you guys? How’d you make it back?” I asked Janessa.

“We paddled around the jetty and into the lagoon.”

Oh. Arooooound the jetty. That would have made much more sense.

‘Around’….’over’……’portage’. These words are confusing.

Despite my stupidity, and the bug bites, and the sunburn, and my stupidity, it was a fantastic trip. I am looking forward to next year when I bring a larger tent, industrial strength albino-grade sunblock, and a motorboat. Until next time, Ocean!

My friends and I in front of Panama City Beach's world famous "Tow Away Zone" sign.