The River Always Calls

Kayaking the Pocomoke River

The initial launch into the Pocomoke River was more of a test run for an uninitiated kayaker like myself. I made little headway as I splashed the paddle into the dark, brown water, learning that left meant right and vice versa. Much of what was around me was lost as I struggled not to impact against another craft or avoid scraping the overhanging trees that reached out from the nearby shore. Out in the open water I felt like a dog learning to swim for the first time, my movements clumsy and hurried.

                Once we coasted off the Pocomoke into a narrow waterway lined with flowering plants that seemed to grow right out of the murky water, we glided effortlessly as if it was the river guiding us and not the strokes of our paddles. At times, I refrained from my strokes, feeling like I was disturbing the serenity around me. My first jolt of excitement was seeing a river otter, or perhaps a beaver, swim right across the bow of our craft. I couldn’t be sure because only the top half of its grey, furry head barely protruded from the water. Whatever it was, the water was definitely it’s home because as I turned to shout my discovery to my companions, the creature had already made it to a nearby thicket of weeds and branches, disappearing from sight. I spent a few moments trying to catch another glimpse of it, but could only hear the occasional purr it made from deep within the grass. Gradually, the river slid me farther away, disappointed.

                As we made our way deeper into the marsh forest, I spotted small creeks cleverly disguised by the low hanging vegetation. I thought back to John Smith, in a canoe very similar to our kayak, pushing deeper into the forest and exploring every possible route through.  I could well understand why he called the area ‘the Isles of Limbo’ (Warner Pg. 7).  Even four hundred years after his exploration, the marshy waters feel neglected by man and left to the oblivion of nature.  However, where Smith was glad to leave and never to return, I felt (as I suspect my companions did) as if I could wander there forever. Every missed turn, every unexplored passage pulled at me, begging me to uncover whatever hidden pleasures it held.  In fact, the saddest part of my day was when I took the last left turn to see the docks we had launched from.  The artificial forms of boats and trucks cut across the far mouth of the river, and seemed to insult their surroundings.  Up until then, I had struggled to understand the point behind ‘The Lee Shore’, but at that moment I could identify with Bulkington and how “the land was scorching to his feet” (Mellville).  While I was in no danger of being “dashed upon the lee” I would have gladly faced whatever dangers the river and the forest held rather than return to the familiar safety of the shore. 

                Perhaps we all feel that way at one time or another.  After all, it was that same burning desire that caused us to trek across the vast Atlantic ocean for a world we knew nothing about.  And it called us west across the Great Plains to brave the steep Rocky Mountains until we came face to face with yet another endless rolling ocean.  But as a people we tend to rest comfortably on the past achievements of others until their deeds seem distant and impossible.  Is that who we have become?  Is that the extent of our adventurous spirit?  While many will never leave the confines of the safe space they have created for themselves, one only has to be quiet and listen to the call of the forest, the river, and the sea. Then the answer becomes as clear as the sky above me that day on the river.

The answer is no.

By Jim Mason