When we write we are speaking, in print, in the voice of whatever we are. I find myself in a weird place right now. As I enter my fiftieth year, having come through two years of chaos and crisis in more than one arena of my life, I feel so changed that I’m not even quite sure that I know the sound of my own voice anymore. I feel the tectonic plates of my internal landscape have shifted so drastically that I’m on the other side of a faultline from the old “Hippie Squared,” and now, when I open my mouth to speak (when I hold my fingers poised above the keyboard), what comes out sounds like a squawk to me, a croak, a squeak. I hear my voice breaking. At forty-nine years old, you no longer expect to hear your voice break. Almost half a century old, and I feel like I’m speaking with a fledgling’s voice. I have to try out my old wings as if they’re new. They creak and moan with arthritis, yet it feels like I’m just learning how to unfold them and fly. I’m not even sure they’re not vestigial. I’m no longer even sure that flight is possible. But I feel forced to try. So yes, I’ve been through some hard stuff. I’m hardly alone in this, of course. The rough times are widespread. In my case: Grief. Layoff. Unemployment. Fighting to hold onto our house. Family health problems. The toll that all of these can take on our most intimate relationships. Hurting my loved one, terribly. Getting hurt. So who am I now–entering my 50th year, seemingly on the other side of the worst of it? On the earlier side of that faultline was a young...

I was knocked loopy by the Pacific Ocean yesterday. But I didn’t let that big, sloppy liquid kingdom ruin my day. I got back on the horse (or the orange, plastic ocean kayak, in this case) and conquered that bitch! (By conquer I mean I managed to kayak for an hour up the coast and then realized I’d rather not do that again.) The short back story starts like this: The first time I kayaked, it was in the Oxnard marina. We saw sea lions, rowed close to pelicans, slid under gorgeous bridges and ogled million dollar channel mansions. Kayaking is relaxing, a get-away, mellow. I liked kayaking. When sporting good stores would advertise kayak sales, I’d eye the product, but couldn’t really justify the rather large expense for an occasional hobby. I planned on sticking to renting the occasional kayak. That plan was working fine, until we stumbled into a yard sale find. This yard sale was held in that fancy neighborhood between Santa Monica and Brentwood, where the houses manage to be huge, stunning and still homey. The guy had 2 ocean kayaks on his lawn and as we were walking up, my husband, Seen, had stopped so short that it took me a full minute to realize that he wasn’t hearing me tell him about the waffle iron that looked interesting. He was enrapt with kayaks. The guy was selling them both, together they cost less than the price of a normal used one. Aside from one missing a seat and hatch, they were in great condition. Even though we had no clue where to put them, or really how to even get them home, we couldn’t pass up that deal. They were now the Robinson kayaks. Once we figured out...