It Took a While, But I Learned to Paddle 

On a recent cloudy morning, I carried my inflatable stand-up paddleboard a block and a half from our Old Town apartment to the C Street dock. Setting it gently on the water, I started on my knees, stood up and took off. Suddenly I was gliding through the silvery water as though I'd paddled yesterday. In fact, it had been six months. 

"Just like cycling," I thought, heading south towards Eureka's marina. Once you learn, you never forget. But not like diving. In my case, I learned to dive at 8, then forgot, then had to relearn at 10.

Across the bay, I could see Barry, my husband, sitting motionless in his kayak, entranced by a school of godwits on the Tuluwat mudflats. I aimed north to join him and, as I got closer, knelt down so as not to disturb the birds. But they suddenly took flight, looking like one organism in an elegant gossamer formation.

Ten years ago, I watched a man skimming along the surface of the bay on a stand-up paddleboard. As soon as I saw him, I knew I wanted what he had, so I signed up right away for coaching sessions at a local sports equipment store. But I'm an anxious learner, and my serious, humorless coach did nothing to allay my fears. In fact, during our second session, when he asked, "Want to paddle around Woodley?" I felt even more nervous. Was he kidding? I barely felt ready to paddle from one Woodley dock to another, much less circle the island. He clearly wasn't reading his audience. Though I managed to get through the hour, I decided stand-up paddling wasn't for me.

But two years later, our neighbors bought paddleboards from Costco and one calm, sunny Saturday, Abigail invited me to go out with her. She wasn't a trained coach, but she had more confidence and experience than I had, which was good enough for me. She suggested we go barefoot ("You pick up information from your feet") and reminded me how to hold my paddle. Soon we were off, effortlessly gliding around the bay, gossiping and laughing. An hour later, back at C Street, I docked successfully, overcoming my fear of falling in the water while disembarking. 

And I haven't stopped since. I've now paddled in 22 bays, lakes, rivers, sloughs and harbors in California and Oregon. And counting. Outside Humboldt Bay, one of my faves is the Crescent City harbor, which has its very own rocky island of sea lions. What a racket they make barking. I love watching them but avoid getting too close.

Oddly, I had a similar start-and-stop experience learning to dive. When I was 8, I learned by accident — the best way — when I went to my friend Nancy's to spend the night. Her family had a pool in their backyard, where she, her brother Mike and I played. At one point while we were splashing around, I found myself crouched over the side of the pool, rolling into the water and swimming without thinking about it. 

But not long after, my family moved, and we didn't live near a swimming pool or a body of water for two years. By the time we joined a YMCA, I had forgotten how to dive. When my swimming instructor wanted me to dive off the pool's low board, she was as inattentive to my needs and nerves as the paddling coach had been. While a line of kids stood snickering behind me, I stood staring down at the fathomless water and shivering, more out of fear than cold. I just couldn't. 

Impatient with me, she resorted to a strategy that today we'd call "shaming." Knowing her younger brother was in my sixth-grade class, she threatened, "I'll tell Jay you wouldn't dive." Of course, I froze even more, and eventually slunk back down the diving board in humiliation.

But the next summer, my grandmother took me to the home of a friend who lived on a property with a pond. The friend's granddaughter and I played games in the water, like seeing if we could swim in between each other's legs without touching. A while later I found myself standing on one of the pond's slippery wooden partitions and plopping in. Within half an hour I executed my first real dive, head first. And all it took was cavorting with a new playmate.

What a difference the right "coach" makes. It's a cliché, but learning for me is all about having fun and being relaxed and spontaneous, preferably with no more than two other people. Never a group — in case of embarrassment, the fewer eyes, the better.

The godwits long gone, Barry and I turned around at the tip of Tuluwat, ready to head back. Ten minutes later, I glided seamlessly to the dock and walked home, thanking Abigail for being just the coach I needed.

Louisa Rogers (she/her) is a writer, painter and paddleboarder who lives in Eureka and Guanajuato, Mexico.