By Dana Zions
At the beginning of my two week institute in Reno, Nevada, I had overheard a local comparing her experience at Lake Tahoe to numerous trips to other lakes and parks. She said she found herself always saying, “Yeah, it’s pretty here… but Tahoe is better.”
I was determined to then to see this Tahoe.
On a Sunday I ended up at a little shop called Adrift Tahoe that was nestled among towering pine trees. I noticed plenty of bright orange kayaks and a variety of paddleboards, all of different colors and sizes, most of which looked brand new.
I had done some simple kayaking numerous times along the Chicago River back home and all over Lake Michigan near New Buffalo Beach and was comfortable with it.
Another teacher that was with my group, Kekama Amona, insisted that I ditch it this time. “You gotta do the stand-up paddleboard,” he said. “It’s just really cool. When you get out there on the water, you’ll love it.”
I wasn’t too sure about how well I would move with the board, but I remembered that I had wanted an adventure. I am pretty open-minded and I figured I probably wouldn’t get the chance to do something new at this Lake Tahoe again anytime soon.
So four of us headed out on the water, first riding the paddleboards out in a sitting position. I had never been surfing before but I sort of felt like that was what I was about to do. I had nothing with me but a life vest and a bottle of water strapped to the board. I felt a little off.
Amona, the only one with boarding experience, guided us through the beginning. I hopped up from my knees to balance on all fours. I lifted my hands very slowly and rose to a standing position.
Trying to concentrate on all of the techniques being shared with me, I dipped the oar into the water. I began pushing myself to the right. I kept my knees slightly bent and stayed as perpendicular as I could with the movement of the water.
This isn’t so tough afterall, I thought. I can do this.
I saw the others getting situated, and I figured since I was already moving, I could keep practicing on my own. I started gliding across the water, making faster, bigger strokes with the oar. Then I started to lose my balance.
My right foot moved backwards quickly, and I panicked a little. I dropped to my hands and knees before I had a chance to topple overboard.
I glanced behind me and felt anxiety hit. My friends were much further away from me now, and I was stuck.
I realized that I had to do something. Only I could move myself. I had to get back up. And toppling overboard would also not mean sudden death.
I actually smiled to myself, and as I brushed off the fall I thought about how to regain my balance. I hopped up from my knees again, strategically, so that my feet straddled parallel to the handle in the center of the board.
Gradually, I stood tall.
Even as I tried to concentrate on technique, I awed, mesmerized almost, at the clarity of the water beneath my feet.
I continued to consider my movements and stumbled slightly until I remembered what Amona had said was one of the most important tips for paddleboarding: “Don’t look down; look up!”
I brought my eyes ahead of me, and I saw that amid my boarding attempts, I had almost forgotten where I was.
Before me there was what looked like a perfect photograph, a postcard even, for this place called Lake Tahoe. The cerulean waters sparkled into the distance.
It was instinctual for me to want to grab my phone or my camera, but I didn’t have the storage of a kayak out here. I bitterly regretted that I wouldn’t be able to share this with my family and friends back home.
Photography has always been a passion of mine but it had been a pursuit for me for the past few months. I am constantly trying to take better photos, understand the camera, adjust for lighting, create interesting angles, match aperture and shutter speed, and just focus.
But I had no camera. There was just me, 2,000 miles from home.
I thought about home. I thought about how I constantly pushed myself there physically too, to run further. I had said that with asthma and a lousy back it had been the single hardest thing I had done in my life. I ran mile after mile across flat city streets, tracking my progress on my phone.
I didn’t like to run with others because I didn’t like to feel pressured. There were times I had to stop with a tight chest and an angry mind. I set small goals for myself, and I felt ecstatic when I reached them. I knew I could push myself.
I kept telling myself to row further across the lake to the point jutting out. Don’t give up, I told myself. Just a little further.
I felt the muscles in my stomach crunching with each stroke. And I looked up and down at all the natural beauty in front of me, and I stopped thinking so much. I realized how much open space and fresh air was around me, and how alone and little I really was in this place.
The warmth of the sun was seeping into my back, beads of sweat were sliding down my head and arms, the cool water was spilling occasionally over my feet, and I was standing on the surface of a lake so vast, encompassed by massive, desert mountains.
As a young, urban Midwesterner, I had never known much about Lake Tahoe’s existence, nor much about standup paddleboarding. I paddled a few miles that Sunday, on my own.
The photographs I took are only those in my memory. Instead, I captured an emotion in myself. I felt grateful for the places and the people in my life who pushed me, and I felt reassured and empowered through my own accomplishments.
The Inverted Period 