It was only around the tip of the island did I see the stretch of the water and the perfect reflection of the banks upon its mirror surface.  Each tree, each branch, each lichen was in perfect reflection of itself as far as the eye could see. The only sound was my oar in the water and the wings of birds as the flew off squawking accusingly at me for interrupting their hunting.  I began to find the rhythm and power of the stroke, the flatness of the paddle pushing me upstream, the lean and flow of my body, the synergy of my muscles.  I tried to take it all in as I pushed myself through the water, gliding through the swamp, pitcher plants, yellow flowers, splash, splash, white birds and sand cranes, paddle paddle, splash splash.  Lost in the rhythm, I hit the 2 mile marker. I was clocking 2 miles every 40 minutes.  The sun warm, the breeze cool, I felt good and everything was going well until…I had to pee. 

There was nowhere to get out, nothing but water and swamplands around me. I had to go. I stuck my bare bottom over the side of the canoe to relieve myself, but without the counter balance of another person, the canoe swung precariously back and forth dipping low towards the water as I froze to regain steadiness and balance. You see, with 2 people in a canoe, the other person can counter balance your weight.  Alone, well alone, as I found out after multiple configurations and contortions was impossible.  I was now at the time where the urge to relieve myself had become a demand.  What to do?!  I really had to go.  I looked around, my brain struggling to find a solution, and the only solution I could come up with was to let my flow join with the swamp water already sloshing around on the bottom of the boat.  There was nothing else I could do, and I have specifically packed to keep everything waterproof and protected.  And so with great relief, I released.  I had to laugh. No other moment would have found me bare bottomed and peeing into the canoe.  But not quite as funny as the moment when my survivor kicked in and I dropped my specifically portioned and packed energy bars into the same cocktail.  Well, it was 98% swamp water, 2% pee, so I popped one in my mouth and pretended that the so said relief had not been at the bottom of my boat.

My arms were aching but I only had a few more miles to go.  I was making great time and would reach my site well before sundown.  My pants were soaking from the oar dripping droplets from above as I switched from side to side and my shoes and socks were dripping wet from the concoction at the bottom of the boat.  The wind was still blowing, I was ready to eat after so many miles of paddling, and I was feeling chilly.  The narrow canal switchbacked one more time and the view opened onto a small lake with a wooden boardwalk.  “Monkey Lake Platform” the sign announced.

“Woo-hoo! I made it!” I shouted joyfully.  I had done it.  Another fear, could I make it to the platform and could I make it there before dark had been answered.  That fear was released.  I was there. 

I coasted up and cut the paddle so I would come upon the dock flat sided, simply needing to step onto the dock.  The first thing I noticed was the outhouse was at the same dock edge.  “Ok, that’s a weird place to put the toilet,” I thought.  I tied up and got out.  I followed a boardwalk through the trees and to the shelter.  There was no sun and no view.  It was already cold in the shade.  The toilet had the best view, and although there was hardly any scent to it, it was slight, and the composting fan whirred.  Not particularly where I wanted to hang out for the day.  I kept my canoe packed and decided to check out the adjoining lake, Buzzard Roost.  I wanted to see if there was a better platform with a better view and some sunshine.  It was the hardest part of the paddle that day as lily pads grabbed the canoe causing friction and slowing its journey along the water.  I saw a small alligator on the way, the first that day, their reptilian blood and their movement chilled with the cold.  I reached the lake and saw that although beautiful, was bare of camp spots.  I paddled back.  With one bar of service and many failed attempts, my phone dialed the Okeefenokee admin office.  After being greeted, I asked to switch sites. 

“Well, you see, I got here, and there’s no view, and I haven’t come to the Okee for over a decade, and I remember the platform had this beautiful view, and this one is in the trees, and its cold, and there’s no view, and this is not something I do ever, and I’m thinking about just paddling somewhere else, it’s just disappointing you know.”  I vomited all the words and feelings out to the park ranger who had answered the phone.

“Hold on,” let me see what I can do for you.  After a hold, she returned to say, “I’m sorry.  No other platform that you can reach today is open.  You’re going to have to stay there.  I am sorry you’re disappointed and hope that you’re okay.”

“No, no,” I replied.  “Thank you so much for checking.  And I am okay, and I’m actually having a great time.  I was just having a moment.  I just wanted to ask.  I feel good and I’m stepping back into my gratitude now.  I’m going to make some food and check out Buzzard Lake for sunset.  Thank you again.”

I was grateful for that moment and the opportunity to make the choice to step into gratitude.  To take a disappointing moment, acknowledge, and release it.  And it was a blessing that there was not another platform to reach for many reasons.  I paddled back into the beauty of the sunset and Buzzard lake grateful and musing.  1) I probably couldn’t have made it anywhere further.  Buzzard lake had added and additional 2 miles.  I had now paddled 9.5 miles and was planning on another 2 to catch the sunset.  2) It was windy, and the trees would protect me that night.  3) I would be missing this amazing and relaxing moment tucked into the reeds, the wind gently rocking, belly full as I awaited the performance of the coming of the night.