Desolation Sound – Reflections from whitewater to sea

Kayaking has often been, for me, an escape tool. A way to flee and lose myself in the whitewater, where focus is everything, where nothing exists beyond the rapid ahead and the world ends at the horizon line—which is usually not too far away.

We all have moments when life overwhelms us, when we don’t know how to face certain situations and everything feels like too much. For me, stepping into the river simplifies it all. There’s only one line, one path, and you have to give it your best shot—not just for aesthetics, not just for the flow, but because your life is on the line. Suddenly everything makes sense: all your energy converges on survival, and when you’re able to flow with it and play along, “risking your life” with style, you feel like you’ve beaten the game. It’s absurd, but in some strange way, it’s true. When I come out of it, I feel sharper, clearer, like my mind has reset.

Sea kayaking, on the other hand, is the complete opposite. The world stretches toward a horizon that slips further away with each stroke, always beyond your sight. Progress is slow and measured. Anyone would say a whitewater paddler isn’t cut out for this. Adrenaline gives way to contemplation, excitement to calm. They’re two different worlds: one drags you into the shadows of the valley floor, playing with your darkness, while the other opens the world wide before you.

Adolescence is lived with the intensity of someone who hasn’t lived much yet, seeing only what’s right in front, surfing every wave for the first time, amazed by whatever the path reveals, and facing each new challenge with vitality and excitement. The knocks you take along the way don’t matter; they’re part of the learning. Growing older, though, means you’ve already experienced those emotions, faced countless situations. It’s harder to be surprised, and things rarely feel as thrilling.

But time has taught me that growing older doesn’t mean losing that sense of wonder. It means learning to find it in other places, in places you never would have looked before. You see the world differently, and new joys emerge.

At 38, I feel like I’m at that point in life where the old ways no longer serve me. I don’t have that same vitality, nor that constant hunger for adrenaline. Instead, I’m restless in other ways. I can look in new directions and get excited about different things. Which, when you think about it, makes perfect sense.

I still love paddling and challenging myself, but now the journey itself, and especially the company, matters so much more. I thought that as I got older I’d calm down, that I wouldn’t crave so much adventure, so much excitement. But incredibly, I feel the opposite. The more I learn, the more I live, the more doors open before me. Pushing the horizon farther away makes the world ahead wider, full of new possibilities.

These are the thoughts that cross my mind as I paddle through the fjords of Canada’s west coast. With Maddi—my partner, my steadfast companion, without whom I can hardly imagine these adventures anymore—and my two friends, Gemma and Pablo, whom I only met a few months ago during our journey through Canada, but with whom, in the stillness of these waters, I’ve opened up as if they were family.

We paddle without a clear destination, and it doesn’t matter. We let ourselves be surprised by whatever appears, happy just to be here, together, in this place. We don’t even know exactly where we’ll sleep tonight—and that, too, doesn’t matter. The landscape drifts slowly by, something that tests the patience of some in the group. They’re not kayakers, not used to paddling, and after hours on the water they struggle to keep pace, eager to reach camp and do other things. Maybe it’s time to stop.

I, on the other hand, drift off a little, savoring the quiet of this place. I take some photos, let myself sink into stillness and contemplation. I like this feeling—getting lost in my thoughts, reflecting on life. Right now, I feel like I could stay here forever. I like it. And in a way, I barely recognize myself. Deep down, I know that once I leave I’ll probably crave a few runs down the Callaghan (a local river), just to release some adrenaline—or maybe not… who knows.

Maybe the key lies in balance. I’ve come to believe we simply need to listen to ourselves and accept that we change, that we evolve. I never thought I’d enjoy kayaking this way—me, who always craved the extreme… Or maybe I’m not that person anymore? Probably that too. The teenage Mikel will always be inside me, but I’ve already lived that.

Calm brings this gift: time to think, to listen inward, to reflect. And I realize I don’t dedicate nearly as much time to that as I should. In a world that spins ever faster, these oases of peace are becoming more and more essential.