I’m currently reading Vicki McAuley’s recount of her husband’s attempt at kayaking across the Tasman Sea and am absolutely hooked with the tale. With each fumble and misstep though I am cheering so desperately for Andrew, really feeling emotionally attached in his journey. But I know the outcome. We all do, with a simple search of his Wikipedia page. And it burdens me so terribly. I feel like I am there, cheering for him, but all this happened when I was just a junior in high school. The story is remarked upon as one of the greatest kayak expeditions of all time. But we all know it was a heavy price to pay. It pains me so much to keep reading, knowing what the ending with be. Maybe his wife will provide me with closure that I otherwise would not be able to attain. I know I must finish reading, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to know. I want to admire Andrew for all his successes and not empathize with the pain of a widow when she heard the news of her husband’s empty kayak found bobbing in the Tasman. Continue reading The life of adventure
Recently I have been studying the exploits of some incredible adventurers, specifically solo explorers in small water craft crossing bodies of water that regularly sink much larger vessels. The designs and the different methods of accomplishing similar goals are so vastly different that I find myself absolutely fascinated and curious as to what is the absolute best method.
The reason this is all of interest to me is because I am also exploring the possibility of embarking on one of these long distance adventures, one that I can only find record of one other person attempting, albeit with a companion and in a canoe. This man, Verlen Kruger, paddled from Florida to Venezuela, and that is exactly what I hope to do. Verlen completed the trip with assistance for long open ocean crossings, something I cannot expect nor intend to receive.