Why Kayaking Was A Mistake And Also The Best Decision I Made All Year

I touched water for six seconds and understood the meaning of life and also the desire to go home.

There’s this thing people do where they post photos of themselves doing outdoor activities with captions like “needed this” or “so grounded right now.” Those people are lying. Or they have some kind of genetic mutation that makes them enjoy being outside for extended periods of time.

I know this because last weekend I became one of those people, except I was the brutally honest version who immediately regretted the decision that led me to sitting in a plastic boat on a lake in November.

The whole thing started when my friend Emily texted me a photo of a lake surrounded by fall foliage that looked like someone had Photoshopped it to be more beautiful than real life allows. She included the words “kayak rental” and “only $20” which my brain interpreted as “a reasonable price for an activity that will definitely help me forget my life right now.”

What my brain failed to process was that kayaking requires upper body strength, coordination, and a genuine desire to be surrounded by water instead of sitting on a couch watching Pluribus.

I possess none of these qualities.

But I said yes because sometimes you have to pretend to be the kind of person who does things like kayaking on purpose. The kind of person who owns activewear that’s seen actual activity. The kind of person who can look at a body of water and think “I should get in that” instead of “absolutely not.”

We drove to the lake on a Saturday morning when the air had that crisp fall quality that makes people think autumn is pleasant instead of just cold summer. The rental place was one of those operations run by a guy named something like Dale or Rick who definitely lived nearby and had knowledge about the best fishing spots.

The guy—his name was actually Tom, which felt like a compromise between Dale and Rick—handed us life jackets and paddles and a waiver that basically said “if you die, that’s on you.” I signed it with the confidence of someone who had never kayaked before and therefore had no concept of how easy it would be to die.

Tom gave us exactly zero instructions beyond “don’t tip over” which felt inadequate but also accurate. He pointed at the kayaks lined up on the shore like a fleet of colorful plastic coffins and told us to pick whichever ones we wanted.

I chose a yellow one because it seemed cheerful, which I thought might help offset the growing sense of dread building in my chest.

Getting into a kayak from shore is an activity designed to make you look ridiculous. You have to kind of straddle it while it’s half in the water, then somehow lower yourself into the tiny seat while the whole thing threatens to trip you into the lake before you’ve even started.

I managed to get in without falling over, which I consider a personal achievement worth celebrating. Emily got in her kayak with an ease that suggested she’d done this before and hadn’t mentioned it, which felt like a betrayal.

Tom pushed us off from shore with the kind of casual shove you give to people whose fate no longer concerns you.

For exactly six seconds, everything was perfect.

The water was smooth. The trees were displaying their fall colors like they were auditioning for a tourism brochure. The sun was doing that thing where it makes everything look golden and beautiful. I felt connected to nature in a way I hadn’t experienced since I was a child who didn’t know better.

I thought: This is it. This is why people do outdoor activities. This is what inner peace feels like.

Then I tried to paddle.

Turns out, kayaking requires you to move both arms in a coordinated fashion while also maintaining balance and not panicking when the boat wobbles every single time you do anything. These are skills I do not possess.

My paddle hit the water at an angle that sent a small splash directly into my face. The kayak spun slightly to the right. I overcorrected and spun to the left. I spent the next thirty seconds rotating in a slow circle while Emily glided past me with the grace of someone who was clearly showing off.

By the time I figured out how to make the kayak go in something resembling a straight line, my arms were already tired. Not “oh I worked out today” tired. More like “I have discovered muscles I didn’t know existed and they are all screaming.”

But I kept going because turning back after five minutes would have been admitting defeat, and I was determined to at least get some kind of experience out of this before my body gave up entirely.

We paddled toward the center of the lake, where the water was deeper and somehow more intimidating. Every tiny wave felt like a threat. Every time another kayaker passed us, I gripped my paddle tighter like it might protect me from the embarrassment of tipping over.

Emily kept saying things like “isn’t this so peaceful” and “the air feels so clean” which made me realize she was having an entirely different experience than I was. Her experience involved enjoying nature. Mine involved survival.

After what felt like hours but was probably twenty minutes, we stopped paddling and just floated there in the middle of the lake. My arms were burning. My back hurt in places I didn’t know backs could hurt. I was cold but also sweating somehow.

And then something shifted.

The water was completely still. The only sounds were birds and the occasional splash from someone else’s paddle hitting the water too hard. Everything smelled like fall and lake water and that specific outdoor smell that makes you remember being a kid.

I realized that for the first time in weeks, I wasn’t thinking about work or bills or the hundred things I needed to do when I got home. I was just sitting in a plastic boat on a lake, being uncomfortable in a way that felt grounding.

This is what people mean when they talk about being present. When they say things like “needed this” under their photos. They mean sitting somewhere that makes your arms hurt while also making you forget about everything except the immediate physical reality of being alive in a specific place at a specific time.

It lasted for approximately three minutes before Emily suggested we head back to shore and I remembered that paddling back would require using arms that had already given up.

The return trip was slower and less graceful than the journey out. I stopped trying to look competent and just focused on making the kayak move forward without tipping over. Tom watched us approach from shore with the expression of someone who had seen this exact scenario play out hundreds of times.

Getting out of the kayak was somehow harder than getting in. I had to use muscles that were no longer speaking to me. I basically rolled out onto the shore like a sea creature that had made a terrible mistake and needed to return to land immediately.

My legs were shaky. My arms felt like overcooked noodles. I was cold and damp and my hair had that specific outdoor texture that takes three showers to fix.

But when Emily asked if I wanted to come back and do it again next weekend, I said yes without thinking.

Because sometimes the best experiences are the ones that make you uncomfortable. The ones that remind you that your body can do things you forgot it was capable of. The ones that force you to be present because you’re too busy trying not to tip over to think about anything else.

I spent the rest of the day with arms that could barely lift a glass of water, but I also spent it feeling accomplished. Like I had done something that mattered, even though all I’d really done was sit in a boat and paddle around a lake for an hour.

Would I recommend kayaking to everyone? Absolutely not. Some of you should stay inside where it’s safe and warm and there’s no risk of upper body injury.

But if you’re looking for a way to forget about everything except the immediate physical reality of being alive, and you don’t mind discovering muscles you didn’t know you had, then renting a kayak for $20 might be the best worst decision you make all year.

Just bring Advil. Trust me on this.