The little engine that couldn't

When I was a little kid, one of my very favorite books was The Little Engine That Could. I don't remember now why I was so enthralled with the story as I had not learned any of the life lessons that make it so profound. Perhaps it was genetic. My mother had chugged up many corporate hills during her career and her stories of perseverance and fortitude were the stuff of my bedtime stories.

In any case, my love of the story carried on through my babysitting years when many a youngster found me rifling through their bed stand libraries looking for the book to cap off a night of T.V. and frozen pizza.

This story of the brave little locomotive huffing and puffing up the tracks plays incessantly in my head as I'm paddling a sea kayak around the Abel Tasman preserves. But, I'm getting ahead of myself. What led to this moment of truth?

Abel Tasman is one of the MUST SEES of New Zealand. It is listed in every guidebook. Mentioned in any conversation with kiwi or immigrant or tourist about what to do on the South Island. So, as we plan our itinerary down to Nelson, in addition to the wine-tasting in Marlborough, a day in the Abel Tasman park is, of course, mandatory.

I line us up with the "gourmet platter" tour. It consists of a water taxi ride through the many inlets and groves that dot the coastline. Then a 2 hour "easy" hike through the bush. After snacks and lunch, more nature: sea kayaking back to where the old van is parked to schlep us back to Nelson - an hour+ ride through gorgeous country.

The first sign that perhaps I'm not quite prepared for the outdoors is my choice of hand luggage. I've got two beach bags crammed with sandals, one towel, water bottles, sun screen, a camera and a granola bar. Another plastic grocery bag with a wind breaker and extra clothes. I'm informed that we are HIKING for 2 hours and then on a sea kayak with a very small compartment for our stuff. No one says out loud that it will be preposterous to tote these bags up and down the "easy" trail...but somehow the raised eyebrows and compassionate smirks clue me in. "Uh, can we borrow a backpack?" I venture. Of course! Two backpacks appear and I quickly reassemble and repack our "gear."

The water taxi ride is fun. We bounce around the bays and are told stories of the native birds [called shags, which curiously is also the British slang for 'hooking up']; see a very cool rock formation that looks like a split apple; meander by sleeping seals; and marvel at the absolute aquamarineness of the sea here. There are no oil patches; floating Budweiser cans; or cigarette butts. Just the gentle slap/slap of a wave against a pristine rock. Even the moss looks nice.

We are deposited on a beach with our packs. We'll pick you up at 1 p.m., says the guide, gesturing somewhere to the left down the shore. Just stay on the path and keep the water to your left.

Brent and I now commence on our first-ever tramp. It doesn't really count as the real hikers have brought in tents, sleeping bags, and cooking gear. They are sporting authentic hiking boots and have walking sticks. They wear bandanas and look a bit scruffy. I've got on my U of M cap and have Purel hand sanitizer with me. Nonetheless, we are walking up steep inclines. There are many, many streams and waterfalls and birds darting about.

Around each bend and across each knob of gnarled trunk is one view more spectacular than the next. We climb in silence. Sometimes Brent stops for a picture. I am pleased at my sturdiness. Brent's knees aren't so good so he's not quite the happy camper as I. I find a tree branch and fashion a walking stick for him. This is about as close to an Outward Bound experience as I've ever had. I feel resourceful and wonder if I should just crawl off the path and try to live off the land. There are no snakes or bears here so I think I could make it. The daydream hangs just above the branches of the fir and pine. It smells so good here.

After the hike, we are picked up on another beach by the water taxi. We are heading to the sea kayak launch place. Another perfect sand beach. Totally isolated except for the young, virile, half-naked guides who will soon take us kayaking.

As I gaze the beach, I think about Gilligan's Island and LOST. There is something so appealing and romantic about a "deserted island" and Abel Tasman is just about as deserted as you can get - and still get the gourmet platter.

We get a lesson in kayaking. We put on the wet, spongy "skirts" to keep our compartment air tight. We learn that if the kayak tips over, we must not panic. Even though we are fastened into the boat and will need to do a very complex maneuver to free ourselves - capsized upside down with salt water stinging our eyes - we must not panic. {I'm already panicking as I can't get the spongy skirt tight enough and my feet are too short for the foot rests and the other four couples who have chosen the "gourmet platter" expedition are all about 25 years old}.

We start out. The sea is relatively calm. We are paddling toward a small rocky island to visit with the seals and shags. And collect fresh mussels from the rocks.

After five minutes, I'm exhausted. I try changing the paddle grip. I try going faster. Slower. Brent seems to be doing his job - he's navigating the rudder and he IS paddling..but we are quickly the last boat in the line. The guide looks back - encouragingly, but already a bit impatient. The other couples are all on steroids, I've decided. They obviously have better paddles or took advanced kayaking lessons.

While we are still trudging across the sea, they are already taking pictures and sort of moored up by the island.

This experience continues. We paddle about for another 30 minutes or so. It really is breathtaking. The problem is, the breath is mine and it is taking every bit of strength I have just to maintain some proximity to the rest of the kayaks.

Brent is incredibly patient as I whisper fiercely to go left. No, go right. Can you please paddle faster? Can you please paddle? I'm becoming incoherent and agitated. Linda Blair in the Exorcist. Ranting about my fatigue. And the worst thing is, this was MY idea. I insisted we go kayaking as part of being outside. Part of nature. Etc., Etc.,

At some point, I just give up. I don't care about the Little Engine that Could. I don't care that we could drift into the ocean if I don't paddle us back to shore. I don't care that it is now raining so we really need to get in gear. I don't care if I look ridiculous slumped over my paddle. I'm soaking wet. The spongy skirt is for shit. My arms and shoulders are burning. I hate the seals. I hate the birds. I especially hate the stud muffins who are always 10 lengths ahead of us.

This is how bad it gets.

The guide paddles over. Takes a look at me. I might even be crying. He unwraps a bungy cord type of thing and hooks up HIS kayak to OURS. He starts paddling.

We are being TOWED. The guy is towing us across the sea. I can't decide what is worse: the embarrassment or the pain in my shoulders. The pain in my shoulders. We still have to paddle though. Even with kayak 911, we have to paddle.

When we finally get to shore [he unfastens us a few meters out so the entire beach doesn't witness this debacle], I am in a spiritual/psychological/physical crisis. I'm the woman who read The Little Engine that Could. If I put my mind to it, I can keep going. I don't quit.

But I did this time.

There is no moral to this story. It is just another tale about what is happening here for me. And behind the pictures, learning from nature about my own nature. Sometimes, the little engine needs to rest.