When Kayaks Fly

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month, centre your story around an absurd detail (for example, people walk on their hands or hedgehogs fly).

Cathy’s novels, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, and MISTER WOLFE, the darkly dark sequel or stand-alone (18+), are available on Amazon. MY BROTHER, THE WOLF, the last of the series, is scheduled for release in 2022/2023.

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When Kayaks Fly

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

I survived to tell this tale...

One Friday evening, shortly after dinner, I was out in my kayak, enjoying the tranquility of the Atlantic Ocean. My wife and I live in a sheltered area, where I can paddle for hours without a care, exploring small islands, coves, and inlets. On occasion, I venture into the vast expanse of the great big sea, cognizant it could turn ballistic at any moment.

That particular night, not a ripple marred the water. Not a cloud dulled the azure sky. Deathly still yet peaceful. I paddled to my usual places. Sat and reminisced. Enjoyed alone time away from my nagging wife and responsibilities.

But when I pulled out from my favourite inlet—

The sky darkened. Black clouds descended. Nothing much scares me, but I shuddered and wished I was back on shore. How could the evening change so drastically, so quickly? 

Waves became wild and ferocious. The wind lashed against my face. I tasted salt.  

One paddle forward. Gusts pushed me back two paddles.

Fog was settling. I could no longer see my house. So much for our protected cove.

I remained calm. I possessed an excellent sense of direction and could easily find my way home.

I paddled and paddled, going nowhere. My arms were tired. Numb. I pressed my feet against the foot braces as if I could propel the kayak forward.

Then—

 

Out of the fog, she appeared: the most gorgeous mermaid I’d ever seen—not that I’ve ever seen a mermaid in real life before that evening—more beautiful than Natalie Portman or Halle Barry or Scarlett Johansson. Prettier than any of the fifty-three woman I’d bedded.

The mermaid drifted behind the gauzy haze while the furious sea raged. Waves lashed against the kayak. I imagined myself looking down: my kayak and I a mere speck.

The kayak rocked to and fro. Back and forth. Frontward to backward.

“No,” I screamed. “No!” My words disappeared into the night as had other words in the past.

I prayed. Wished I had a rosary to clutch instead of my paddle. I’m not Catholic yet I wanted that assurance of life after death. But what do I, an agnostic, know about religion?

I was a goner. It’s true what “they” say: your life flashes in front of you. You see every reel. Every bad thing. Every good thing. I closed my eyes. I didn’t want to see how I’d raped a fellow student in high school, how I’d defrauded my partner at Mullin & McCracken, how I’d cheated on my taxes. The list was endless...

But not only did I see my past, I saw my future. Scenes I’d never experience. “They” never tell us about our futures, do they?

Even today, I’m uncertain what happened next, but the scene is as clear as Windexed glass. My kayak ascended into the air. Flew—flew as in flying! No wings magically appeared, but I soared upward, clutching the paddle as if it were a life preserver. I screamed obscenities. Wished I were dead. Waited for death. Hoped for death...

I saw our house below, albeit faintly through the haze. Tiny. Obscure. As inconsequential as I’d been previously in the water. The kayak whirled like a whirligig.

Again, my life flashed in segments. I closed my eyes. Wished for death to relieve me of certain excruciating death.

The kayak tottered. My stomach lurched. The feeling was as I’d imagined if standing in a free-fall elevator, but I had no way to jump—jumping so I’d be safely in the air when the elevator hit, thwarting death.

“I’m sorry, Marie.” I screeched. I silently prayed. Bellowed prayers. I don’t remember everything that transpired, everything I did. It happened within minutes. Seconds, maybe. A bad dream. Yet, this wasn’t a dream for when I closed my eyes, I was awake. And when I opened them, I was still immersed in the dream.

No dream. This was reality!

The kayak plunged. Spray soaked my upper body. Pinpricks battered my face as if I were caught in a hail storm.

The kayak and I submerged into the water, sinking to the bottom as if an elevator gone awry. This was it. Vanishing into the depths of oblivion. Another second, I’d face my maker, who’d slam and lock the pearly gates.

I opened my eyes to the ocean’s darkness.

And then—as if Rudolph directing a sleigh—the kayak took flight. Cold air accosted me when we lifted. I was still in the kayak—the kayak full of frigid water.

I prayed again. Shrieked. “No.”

I closed my eyes for the millionth time.

A whoosh.

A jolting thump.

I opened my eyes.

 

I was sitting in my water-filled kayak, safely back on shore. The sun shone brightly upon my house. The air was still.

I rubbed my eyes. Surely, I was in the throes of a dream. I’d wake in the morning, forgetting the nightmare. Life would be back to normal.

I extricated myself from the kayak, splashing water on the dry sand while doing so. I felt like a wet dog, wishing I could shake the water off me. An impossibility, of course, yet with all that had transpired, I wouldn’t have been surprised to find myself morphed into a rabid wolf.

Shivering, I trudged up the mulched path. I couldn’t wait to walk into the house, kiss Marie, clutch her to my chest. In that second, I vowed to be a better husband. I’d buy her every jewel I could afford. I’d make passionate love to her every night—every night she wanted it, of course. I suddenly knew the meaning of “no.”

I’d contact Liz Griffith. Finding people today was easy, what with social media. I’d apologize profusely for that afternoon when I didn’t listen to "no." I’d contact Edward, my ex-partner. I’d work my butt off, pay back every penny I embezzled from him.

Despite my wanton ways, I’d never confess to my wife that I cheated on her. She’d never in a zillion years forgive me for that. 

This should be the end of my story, but it isn’t even though it seems a fitting ending to a tall tale. I won’t reveal the details of my life over the past twenty years except to say that I lived up to my promises and enjoyed the future screened before me that night in the kayak—the future I thought would be denied me.

 

That night, Marie greeted me when I entered the house. “You weren’t gone long.”

What the fuck? I’d been gone forever. I didn’t question her, though. I gave her a huge hug, breathed in her sweet scent of apple blossom shampoo, rubbed her back. “I’m tired. Going to get a shower and go to bed.”

She examined my face. Stared straight into my soul. “Really? It’s only seven.”

Seven o’clock? Hadn’t I gone out around 6:30? “Yeah, not feeling well.”

She shooed me off to bed, adding, “I’ll join you later.”

I snubbed the shower and collapsed into bed. I massaged my throbbing temples while the evening’s events washed over me. No way did any of that happen. Kayaks don’t fly. Mermaids don’t exist. Not in real life. I combed my fingers through my hair, searching for the lump to indicate a fall. I had obviously hit my head and passed out.

No lumps or bumps, though.

The next morning, after Marie prepared her signature omelet, I wandered down to the shore. My kayak sat in the sand, several feet from the water’s edge, where I’d left it, the paddle resting alongside as usual.

All was well.

“Fuck,” I mumbled. “Fuckin’ dream.” Why did I even question it? Of course, it was a dream. Kayaks don’t fly, especially not when filled with water—seawater or otherwise. And mermaids don’t exist. And—

I gasped. My legs turned to putty.

What the fuck...

The kayak was full of water. Completely full. Seaweed floated on top.

It hadn’t rained in days.

 

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The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.com/