Finding myself upside down in the kayak with my head pointing toward the muddy river bottom was shocking enough. The cold ocean water pouring into my ruptured neck gasket and flooding my (still) too thin wetsuit added a surprising new twist on suffering.

Islands are more often than not the destination for my paddling, when there is a destination. The larger islands are exciting in their own right, but as they gain in size, they diminish in their islandness, and so it is the small ones that I prefer:

Islands of floating sea ice, far too small to call icebergs, and large enough only to hold myself, one hand steady on the bow, as they float down river and out to open water, where they'll eventually melt back into the sea. These ephemeral islands, on whose fleeting structure I am the only person that has ever and will ever set foot, are my favorite.