Connemara and Fishing

"Just follow my line, you'll be fine!"

"Er, ok. Sounds good."

They call it a battle roll when you manage to roll your kayak in a real situation on the river, not a relatively safe practice roll. My first battle roll commenced about 30 seconds after I supposedly followed couch-surf-host-Macca's-housemate-Claire's line down the rapids. It consisted of me frantically slamming my paddle on the bottom until I flopped on the breathing side of the river, just in time to swallow the next rapid. I think there's a name for that one, the shallow river boyscout roll or something.

But sweet. That worked.

Claire and I sat in the eddy in absurd January Connemara sunshine. How the heck did I get here? I pinched myself, sitting in a free kayak in a free wetsuit getting a free whitewater primer for few other reasons than chance. Rounded, recently glaciated peaks drained down to a beautiful fjord in a very familiar way. Sheep ran amok over the hillsides.

"Alright! This next one is going to be similar but a little longer. "
 "Right... let's do it!"

Next one really was longer. No battle rolls, just some frantic paddling -- "just keep paddling!" -- and eventually spit out into calm waters once more. There's a nice rhythm to it, the cycles of action and pause reflecting my travel life perfectly.

For now, I sit in calm Galway waters before blasting down to rapids to Dublin to London then Oxford, for a short calm before rapids spit me all the way to Marrakesh.

Morocco.

Then perhaps no longer rapids, but waves.


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Hitch hiking is like fishing. You've really got to be standing in just the right spot, and your bait needs to suit your target.  Timing and appearance is everything. And patience is the fundamental virtue.

I have been sternly quizzed on decadent American politics, learned about how Antony the truck driver met his wife in a Limerick nightclub, and gripped my seat as we passed "slow" cars at 100 miles per hour while chatting about Brian's expected child. New-agey physical therapists spoke calmly about life in the woods outside Killarney, and compassionate mothers told stories of their husbands' young adventures thumbing around France. It took farmer Sean five sentences to comprehend Riley was my first name. All were appreciated, and quite a bit more memorable than the bus. Not to mention cheaper.

You can't manufacture moments of genuine human contact.  But you can put yourself in the right position. Kinda like fishing for experience.