The Adventure that Ignited my Love of Adventures
Kayaking 121km Across the Atlantic Ocean
Wet
I was lying on the rocks of Ile Nou, an island in the Atlantic Ocean. I pulled my soaking wet sleeping bag up to my chin. I rolled over right into a pile of rain water that was gushing in through the huge rip in the top of my tent.
I didn’t know when the storm would let up. All I knew was that it was 9:30 p.m., eight hours till sunrise. It was going to be a looong night.
The storm raged outside the four pieces of translucent mesh that mentally separated me from the pelting rain and howling wind. In reality, the mesh tent was useless, I might as well have been sleeping right on the rock beach.
The waves thrashed against the rocks. They were so loud I thought they would swallow my tent and carry me out to sea.
I was frozen to the bone. I went to bead wearing every single layer of clothing I brought, and now each one of them were like sopping sponges. My wet clothes were plastered onto my body from hours of fat raindrops exploding on every surface of my body. At this point, I didn’t try to avoid the lake forming in my tent or the water flowing in like a waterfall above my head. I was wet to the bone.
I didn’t feel any anger at the menacing storm cloud which had drenched us during the 18km kayak it took to get to the island, or for facilitating the huge storm we were experiencing. I didn’t feel upset or mad at the sky for choosing my tent to rip and drowning me in inches of ice cold water.
I actually felt a sort of appreciation for the storm. It taught me that peace exists in chaos. As the sky threw up kilograms of H20 molecules, I gave up my need for certainty and learned to love spontaneity. I felt an overwhelming sense of peace. Calm and happy. I had everything I needed — a wonderful group of people that made me laugh so much my cheeks hurt from smiling, delicious camping meals, bladders (no not the organ; to carry water) full of fresh water and a whole ocean of bays and crossings to explore.
I lay there, watching the wind pushing raindrops in every direction. The powerful forces of water and wind colliding in a slurry of adventure.
This article is a collection of stories in a somewhat sequential order from my backcountry kayaking adventure 121km across the St.Lawrence bay in the Mingan Archipelago National Park reserve. Hundreds of kilometers isolated from the rest of society, in one of the most powerful bodies of water on planet Earth, through every kind of weather you can imagine — an adventure that taught me about myself, and ingrained in me the values I care most about in life. The perfect 17th birthday and a reset which sparked reflection about the life I want to build for myself. The adventure that ignited my love of adventures.
So without further ado, que the stories and amateur philosophizing! Let the adventures begin!
(As a little bit of context, this ten day trip is what we call “backcountry” — essentially camping in the wild with no amenities. No running water, no toilets, no people. You survive off what you bring and live on the land.)
Relearning How to Breath
Part 1
I rounded the corner and was met with a large gust of wind.
I started paddling. Hard.
Pull, pull, pull my brain was screaming at my shoulders.
The first 15 minutes were hard. Thrust from the comfortable shoreline into the first big crossing of the trip, it was the first time I was alone. No sea birds to watch; no trees and rocks to admire. All I had was my breath. And my pounding shoulders reminding me to breath in. And breath out.
I pulled my paddle with all my might to keep up with the group.
I wanted so badly to stop. My shoulders were screaming. The blisters on my thighs were rubbing against the sides of the boat. But the waves were rhythmically rolling in every 2.25 seconds. They would crash into the nose of my boat sending me off balance if I paused for even a fraction of a second.
So I settled my face into a wide grin and paddled. I didn’t think about my aching legs. I thought about the smell of the sea air and the warm sun shinning on my face.
And within a few minutes I didn’t notice my legs which had now turned numb.
My mind had reached a kind of flow state. A state of bliss. To a degree that I have never experienced before and would give anything to feel again.
We were paddling into a headwind and the waves were big long rollers. They weren’t thrashing or crashing, they were long gentle swells which picked up the back of my boat and placed me down a few feet ahead. I felt like I was flying!
After 35 minutes, my body was on autopilot and I gave my mind permission to wander. I didn’t need to think about paddling or steering — my body did that on it’s own. I was just alive. My mind was like a blank paper that I didn’t want to ruin with words.
I closed my eyes and took a big breath in. I held it for a few seconds. The I let it out. Big breath in, then out.
In…out…
In…out…
In…
Out…
I appreciated the scent of salt that wafted into each nostril, and the faint sound of crashing waves on a nearby reef which put my mind at ease. I felt like a baby being rocked to sleep.
The crossing was magical. When the shoreline came into view, I felt this extreme sadness wash over me. I didn’t want to get out of my boat. I wanted the feeling of pure bliss to continue.
The rolling waves taught me that peace is not reliant on an environment. It is closer to an emotion than a physical state. I learned that I can be at peace within the most stressful and painful of situations. Calmness, bliss, peace, I used to associate these things to the state of the outside world. I was always waiting to feel at peace. Waiting until I graduated high school, or until I completed a big deadline or until I landed that internship. But after all these things, I still never felt at peace. Just like the waves, work, responsibility and stress are constant. So it is up to us to create peace in the business of day to day life.
Part 2
When we take our first breath, we cry. Millions of tiny air sacs are forced to open and let oxygen into the lungs.
Breath is accepting life. A vehicle to experience the magic of the world. Necessary, but also an immense gift. To be granted this life.
I’ve been breathing for seventeen years. That’s approximately one hundred twenty-seven million five hundred thousand breaths.
And yet I still don’t know how to breath.
Somewhere along the way, I lost the awe and wonder, the utter appreciation for life, that those first few breaths bring.
I want every breath to be like those first breaths. A conscious decision of gratitude. A reminder of this gift called life, and all the experiences I have yet to feel.
And that is the bliss in that first crossing of the adventure. I relearned how to breath. Turned it from a subconscious act to a conscious decision of pure lust for life.
Backcountry Luxuries
I can’t even begin to describe the joy that my Cliff Bar brought me everyday.
The moment the chocolatey, crispy, crunchy deliciousness landed in my mouth, my taste buds lit up like a city at night.
The simple joy of a Cliff Bar quickly became the highlight of my day. After kayaking all morning, my Cliff Bar was my mid-afternoon snack. A treat after hours of paddling; and fuel for another few.
Out there in the ocean, with no amenities or conventional luxuries of regular day-to-day life, the simple joys, that I usually take for granted, were the biggest, most glamorous, luxuries I savored every second of.
Some of my backcountry luxuries:
- Cliff Bars
- Powdered hot chocolate
- Taking off my wet kayaking shoes and putting on dry socks and my hiking boots. The best feeling in the world. Period.
- Crawling into my sleeping bag
- Drinking fresh water! So refreshing
- Chocolate covered almonds
- Lying on the rocks in the sun
- EXPLORING AN ISLAND
- Finding sea shells and cool rocks
- Our dinners:) delicacies!
As I write this, I’m back home in my comfortable life: Running water. A bed. Toilets. Showers. HEAT. And I don’t even bat an eyelash to the joy of simply taking a long sip of lukewarm fresh water, or curling up into a wet sleeping bag on a surface of rough rocks. The luxuries of backcountry life are now my worst case scenarios.
When you have less, the joys mean more.
Now that I have more, it’s like my brain automatically demands a higher standard. But I find that I am less satisfied with the big flamboyant things.
The simple things bring me more joy than any big thing can.
I want to reprogram my primitive brain that wants more, to be fulfilled with less. And to give the little everyday joys the same deep appreciation as I do when I’m on an island.
Why should I take running water for granted just because I have easy access to it everyday? Millions, almost one billion, people don’t have access to water! I am so lucky.
“Sometimes Things Don’t Go as Planned”
I woke up to the light sound of raindrops echoing on the top of my tent.
I rolled on to my side. The last thing I wanted to do was get out of my nice warm sleeping bag and put on my cold, wet kayaking shoes and wade into the freezing water of the Atlantic Ocean during the rain.
No way. So I lay awake, on my side, listening to the rain.
A few minutes passed. I heard talking outside. Someone called my name.
So I forced my body to uncurl from it’s comfortable position. I put on my rain jacket and ventured into the rain outside.
And you know what? It wasn’t nearly as unpleasant as I’d thought. The rain felt smooth on my face which I hadn’t washed in over a week. And the cold was refreshing.
I realized that sometimes, many times, we make up these big elaborate excuses in our heads to persuade our brains from doing the hard thing.
I realized that the hard things are actually so much more enjoyable without these excuses.
And so the seventh day at sea started as each day did. We made a fire. We boiled water. We made instant coffee. We cooked up eggs for scrambled egg sandwiches with salsa. We washed the dishes. Took down camp. Packed up the kayaks. And were in our boats by 7:30 am to start kayaking.
Except this day was a little difference. It didn’t go quite “as planned”.
I was balancing two tents, my dry bag (with my single change of clothes), and the cooking bag in my arms while walking down to the beach to start loading everything into the kayaks.
And voila! I was met with a little surprise.
The tide was wayyy out. Where the water should have been, there was only sand. And sea urchins. And mussels.
We had read the time charts wrong.
Our departure time of 7:30 am was right at low time. Smack dab at low tide.
Usually this wouldn’t be a problem — we could have just lounged around in the sun, or better yet — explore the island! — and left a few hours later when the tide came back in. But today was calling for a big storm. We had to leave now if we wanted to make the 11km crossing to the next set of islands before the wind picked up and waves got rough.
After exhausting all possible options, there was one choice left: we would drag our boats through the tidal flat. (Almost half a kilometer through less than two centimeters of water).
I took hold of the front hatch of ‘The Beast’, Rod and Esme’s monstrous double kayak.
“One, two, three, PUSH!” we half pushed-half pulled the boat forward with all our might. It moved less than a foot.
“One, two, three!” this time it moved a little more.
And before long, we were perfectly synchronized. The Beast was gliding through the small layer of water effortlessly. Around twenty five minutes later, huffing and puffing, rain jackets unzipped, we reached the open water.
As everyone finished loading The Beast, I splashed back through the water to make the traverse again. This time with my boat. Then once more for my Dad’s boat.
I forgot about the incoming storm or our wonderfully engineered day plan which quite literally evaporated out of sight with the tide. All I could think was ‘this is so much fun!’. It was truly exhilarating.
Sure things that morning didn’t go ‘as planned’. But why the heck should I let that get to me? And why do I put so much emphasis on plans anyway? Experiences are so much more fun without a set routine — with the space to do something a little crazy (weather that’s dragging three kayaking through a tidal flat, making that phone call you’ve wanted to for years, or writing a whole freakin book) — instead of the nicely manicured, time blocked, productivity enhanced, and quite frankly, boring, plans.
And so the tide taught me life’s true beauty lies in its spontaneity. Life will not always go your way, the weather wont always cooperate, your plans may not play out like they looked on paper. And you know what? That’s okay. Because we are not preprogramed robots; we are humans. We don’t operate off code and tight schedules; we operate off our ability to feel. To experience the unknown, even if it isn’t written in the plan.
As humans we obsess over plans and structure because it makes us feel safe — but it also blinds us to the magic that unfolds when we relinquish control.
I learnt that the most profound moments, the ones etched into the lobes of our brains for a lifetime, are rarely scripted.
Community
It is crazy what a few days in the wild can do.
It is like glue.
That quickly bonds strangers from different walks of life, decades in age apart, into a friendship.
Community.
That is what we quickly created. A community of service, love and humor.
In a society that is always go-go-go, I find relationships grow more and more shallow. This trip showed me the kind of true friendship that I value.
The sun was shining, the wind was strong. We all sat on the beach, admiring the ocean. I passed around my bag of chocolate covered almonds. We talked about the mechanism of the tide.
I didn’t want this moment to end. Everything was perfect. My smile felt permanent.
Hot Chocolate Can Fix Anything
I was freezing. Every inch of my body was moist. Just wet enough that that every layer of clothing stuck like cold glue to the hairs on my body.
It was raining tiny ice chunks. All around me, sharp crystals of covalently bonded H2O molecules punctured the water and sunk into the dark vortex of the ocean.
And on top of the cold, I had to pee.
But the island we were traversing was surrounded by a 1km radius of tidal flats. Making it impossible to get out of the boats.
So we kept paddling.
My eyes were peeled to the island, scanning over and over for a passage of water to the island. Nothing. Only tidal flats ~ so beautiful; each filled with millions of microecosystems, but so utterly frustrating for my bladder.
Eventually, there was a crack of land we could access with our kayaks. I peed on a bush and found a massive, perfectly preserved, sea shell a few feet away.
Out of my kayak, the wind licked my bare legs in shorts. The hairs on my unshaved legs stood up straight. Goosebumps covered my pinkish-cold skin.
I was, now, even more cold.
I took a bite of my daily cliff bar. A few swigs of water. And climbed back into my kayak, grateful to shelter my legs from the wind.
(While sea kayaking, you wear a ‘skirt’. A thick water resistance material that you wear like suspenders, and covers the cockpit to prevent water from entering, especially during storms. And as a bonus, it is incredibly insulting!)
We had a 9km crossing. To the most northern island in all the archipelago: Île Nue de Mingan.
I started paddling. Trying to settle into the rhythmic pull of water. I pulled. And did it again. And again. Again. Again. And Again.
With each pull, I became hyper aware of my surroundings.
Fog was creeping in. Fast.
A few minutes passed, and I couldn’t see the island behind us. I could barely see outlines of the kayaks beside me. All I could see was a thick blanket of fog in every single direction.
I couldn’t even see the island we were paddling towards. We had to navigate completely by compass.
Very quickly, my mind became bored. With nothing to look at, the time dragged. But the hardest thing was that I had no gauge. I didn’t know how far I’d come. Or how much longer till we reached the island.
My mind wouldn’t settle. All I wanted was to get out of the kayak and stretch my legs.
“How much longer?” my brain kept repeating like a five year old.
After what seemed like half a day, I almost ran into a jagged rock. My neck craned back to stare up at the magnificent rock cliff.
Finally we had made it! All I could think about was snuggling into my sleeping bag.
My heart sank what felt like the entire depth of the ocean when I realized we had to circumnavigate half of the entire island to find a stretch shoreline without reefs and tidal flats.
So back to paddling it was.
And after what felt like hours later, I kayaked straight into the pebble beach, and uncurled my legs from my kayak.
I wanted to collapse on the ground. Hide under a rock. I was completely consumed in my own pain and suffering.
But what use would it be to complain? Why wish for something else? No one had anything to fix what had happened we were on an island for gosh sakes!
So I plastered a fake smile on my face. And made dozens of trips from the shoreline to where we pitched the tents. After around an hour of getting everything set up, Rod made a fire. And made us all a piping cup of hot chocolate. I passed around my most prized possession — chocolate covered almonds — for us to share.
I learned that hot chocolate can really fix anything. Sometimes all you need is a cup of powdered hot chocolate mix to rejuvenate you. It pulls you out of your own little bubble.
And so I smiled. A real smile. Full of gratitude to have water. Gratitude to have warm clothes to change into. Gratitude to have a tent to curl into. I have it so good.
Deep breath in…deep breath out…
Exploration: Experiencing Magic
Everyday was a new adventure.
I saw seals fighting over the perfect suntanning rock. I saw whales and porpoises. I saw seabirds dive bombing the water to hunt for fish. I saw star fish. Stunning sunsets and rises. Gorgeous rock formations. Sea shells, crabs, cliffs, flowers. Heck, I even saw the Starlink train (which actually reminded me that the natural world is infinitely more impressive than the gadgets we humans create).
Every experience, no matter how big or small, I savored. I was a six year old on Christmas morning all day; pointing out everything I laid eyes on.
I knew that this slice of time was finite. That the magic would end in ten days. So I wanted to burn every detail into my memory.
Now that I’m back home, I’m rushing to just go through the movements every day. Time is infinite, so I don’t savor it like I did that finite ten day slice of magic.
The pure bliss and magic I experienced on the Atlantic taught me that just being alive is magic enough. That just because the mundane seems less shiny than exploring an island, doesn’t mean it holds less magic. It taught me that my time is finite, no matter how infinite it feels. I only have so many days on this Earth — it just seems farther away than a ten day timestamp. The mundane of day-to-day life, stress of exams, anxiety about the future, all house the same magic as kayaking with whales. Sometimes I just need to crane my neck a little higher to see it.
Turning 17
I cut kindling with the axe.
Up, down, crack. Up, down, crack!
I piled the kindling on a bed of birch bark and lit the fire. Within minutes we had a big flame.
I stood around the fire, holding my hands out over it and rubbing them together. The warmth felt nice. Like a big hug over my hands.
I proceeded to cut veggies, running back to the fire every thirty seconds to warm myself. I brought a pot of water to a boil over the fire and dumped the pasta in.
When the food was cooked, we sat around the fire, in the dark, eating, talking, laughing.
It was my seventeenth birthday. My last year of childhood! It hit me that in less than a year I will be an adult! Wow! With adult problems to worry about; budgeting, bills!
My future seemed so ambiguous; it still does. I have all these big ambitious goals, in career, sports and life. I feel as though I have these ironed out end goals but no plan on how to get there. And this uncertainty is so scary.
Up until now I’ve been able to operate my life on autopilot. My life has been straight forward: fourteen years of mandatory government education, and try to do as much cool stuff in between. I am a high school student on paper, but spend the majority of my time as a writer, try-to-be philosopher, researcher, student of the world. And now, the training wheels are off. I can’t live my life on autopilot. I don’t want my first few years out of the system to slip by with me trying to put the training wheels back on. I need to embrace the wobbliness of two wheels.
I remember eating my pesto pasta, surrounded by the dancing fire and people I love, thinking this is just where I want to be.
This feeling of profound connection and belonging. Groundedness. Presence. Fulfillment. I want these feelings to be the compass for the next few years. I think that if I focus on doing the things that make me feel the degree of fulfilment I felt out there on the Atlantic, everything will be fine.
And so my seventeenth birthday came to a close. It was not extravagant. It was like no birthday I have ever had before. It was perfect. Everything I want.
The Heartbeat of the Sea
Kayaking is a lot like running. Instead of one foot in front of another, it’s one paddle in front of another. Like a rhythmic dance.
But there’s this element of added tranquility with the water. Even in big, thrashing, waves, I can feel the steady pull of the tide. It’s grounding. The heartbeat of the sea.
There were many times where I would match my breath to the gentle pull of the water. As my kayak was lifted up-down, my breath went in-out.
The stillness of the ocean is such a poignant metaphor.
Through every spout of bad weather, through every season, the calm pulse of ocean is still below. Sometimes it’s just covered up by the craziness above.
The heartbeat of the sea taught me that it’s up to me to find peace from within. That my inner state does not depend on the outer world. I’ve been waiting to feel at peace till I graduate high school, or finish that big project — but I’ve found that even after these things I don’t feel the level of peace I am looking for.
So it’s up to me to create peace from within, instead of relying on peace in the outside world. Because just as the sea is calm under the surface of a storm, I too, can be calm during chaos.
The Last Day
I stepped out of my kayak into the cold salt water.
I walked up the sandy beach, turned around, and admired the ocean in front of me. The view doesn’t get old, it takes my breath away every day.
Ten days had come to a close. The trip was over. I could see the city lights in the distance, and could hear the faint sound of traffic.
I stood there on the island for a long time. Watching two cheeky sea otters that had followed us for the past few kilometers; swimming under and around our kayaks, poking their heads out of the water and staring us in the eyes like a three year old seeing an ice cream cone for the first time.
I felt so much love for my cliff bar, the warm air, the sea birds, and this moment.
I forced myself to get back into my kayak. We had a long drive ahead of us. We had to get going.
That last crossing was beautiful — we saw whales, seals and sea otters — as if the entire archipelago was coming to say goodbye. The sky treated us to the most glorious sunrise. The ocean was so still it was like glass, reflecting the tall cliffs like a painting.
When the shoreline of the city came into full view, I felt this sinking feeling of dread. I did not want to go back to civilization. I did not want to shower. I did not want to wash my hands. I did not want to have a big meal or sleep in a warm bed. I did not want to even go near my phone or laptop.
I wanted to wash my hands in the cold ocean water, sleep in my wet sleeping bag and eat meals cooked over the fire.
Life is so simple in the wild. It’s fulfilling. Every little joy means so much more than it does in civilization. I had everything I wanted in the wild, I didn’t want any more.
I let the waves gently push me to shore. I took a deep breath in, and out; the tool I was indebted to the ocean for teaching me. I got out of my kayak. Pulled it on shore. And started unloading all the hatches. An hour or so later the boats were tied on top of the truck and we were heading to wash our hands for the first time in nearly two weeks.
I went pee in a toilet and washed my hands with soap and warm water, drying them with an air drier. I filled up my water bottle with cold water. I changed into a clean, dry, pair of clothes.
I felt sad.
I was mourning of a state of being. A simpler, more grounded existence, that for a fleeting moment in time was my reality. I miss the authenticity that defined our experience in the Atlantic.
Coming back to civilization, it felt so shallow, almost trivial. All I wanted was to be back on an island and feel the depth of human connection, the joy in being alive that is lost in this artificial thing called civilization.
But —
Life goes on. And so we bought coffee, and hit the highway for the 48 hour drive back home.
(I still couldn’t bring myself to open my laptop or phone. I couldn’t even read a book. So I looked out the window. And thought.)
I wish I could say I am more calm after this trip. That I’ve learned to embrace uncertainty and find peace from within and live everyday without getting overwhelmed, upset or annoyed.
But that would be a lie.
I still feel anxious, I still feel overwhelmed, I still feel angry. These feelings didn’t just magically disappear after coming to these big conclusions in the wild.
But maybe that’s the point.
Important experiences leave a mark on us. They teach us something.
This kayaking trip ignited my love of adventure. After feeling such immense joy at the beauty in a small slice of the world, I want to see the joy in other slices. My raw admiration of ‘wow this is amazing’ has given me the courage to create my own adventure.
As the end of high school and beginning of adulthood comes closer, the unknown is ambiguous. And so exciting. I am blessed with so many options, just as I am blessed with life, water, food, and a deep gratitude that this trip ingrained in me.
I learned that I would rather feel fulfilled than ‘happy’, in the connotation of modern society. I feel the happiest when working on things that bring me fulfilment — weather that is kayaking through a big storm, having a meaningful conversation, or writing an article. I can feel both happy and fulfilled in times of pain. And I can create happiness no matter where I am, by just smiling and being grateful. Because no matter what situation I am in, there is always something to be grateful for.
And most importantly, nothing is forever. Nothing is permanent. So that’s even more a reason to live fully in the moment, and appreciate what you have, where ever you are, right now. The best experiences will come to a close, but that also means that you have the strength to overcome the hard ones. And the only thing, that is important, is this moment, right now.
So maybe after all, life isn’t about feeling grounded, peaceful or happy every day. Maybe it’s just about balancing the days you don’t. Getting through the hard days, with the biggest smile you can muster. Helping the person who is having a bad day. Maybe it’s less about how to get yourself to the top of Maslow’s Hierarchy of Needs, and more about how to get others there. It’s not about the importance of a kayaking trip, it’s not about the lessons I learn from living in the wild: it’s about recognizing, and fully appreciating the beauty in everyday life, no matter how busy you are or how mundane the day-to-day feels. And it’s about adding more beauty into the lives of others.
And if you’re ever unsure, there is always your breath. All you have to do is breath in…
And out…
Thank you so much for reading! I’m Rachel, a 17 year old living in a small town in Northern Ontario. At this point, most would call me obsessed with outdoor adventure, weather it be long kayaking expeditions or ultramarathons. I have a deep passion for understanding complex problems, and want to spend my life creating solutions to problems that disproportionately impact the world’s poorest.
My email is always open at runnerrachel.lee@gmail.com, and you can sign up for my every-few month-ish newsletter, find me on LinkedIn and Instagram.
If you take one thing away from this web of stories, it’s that the world is stunning and there is so much to experience! Rally together a group of people, plan an adventure and go experience life! You will have so much fun and discover yourself:)
