by Robin Montgomery Kennedy

“Holy mother of God!” I yelled into Quentin’s face. Adrenaline surged through me. I was sure we would be thrown over the side into the white-capped crests. Quentin laughed, but his face flushed red, his eyes widened. We were both completely soaking wet from sea spray. His shirt clung to his body. Tadd, who sat grinning on the other side of Quentin, was only partially wet. 

The raft hit the waves head-on at what seemed like a hundred miles per hour, again and again and again…the massive outboard motor launched us up and straight into the next giant swell. The over-sized inflated craft hit the crest and dropped, hit and dropped, over and over. Cold ocean water sprayed my face on each impact and drenched my hair. Salty water dripped from my eyelashes, burned my eyes and blurred my vision.  

My cotton coverup clung to my body, drenching my shorts and swim top beneath it. A deep shiver vibrated through my entire body. My teeth chattered. There were no life jackets in sight. We sat on plank seats that lined the inside edge of the raft. 

The first mate had instructed us to slip our feet under a single nylon rope that circled the floor. “If you don’t secure yourself, I’m not responsible when you fly overboard,” he grinned. I clenched a metal bar on the side of the steering stand. He watched me and chuckled. I remembered signing a long, extensive waiver the day before and wondered what risks I had agreed to. I had barely read the fine print when I bought the tickets online. 

Ashore during the pre-boarding instructions, the captain had intently questioned us about neck and back injuries. Everyone aboard had denied fragile bones and frames and had agreed to some bouncing and bumping. I still had a terrible head cold and probably should not have been around other people, but doubted I would ever come back to Kauai or be able to take this trip to the Nā Pali Coast again. This might be my only chance to tour this stunning shoreline with my sons.

The captain shouted, “Yee Ha!” and cut the throttle, throwing us forward. The raft bobbed calmly now since we were beyond the high surf. Thank God, I thought, a break. We can relax. 

O Captain, my Captain introduced himself and mentioned this was his second year of commanding this wild rig, and that he was twenty-three years old. “No one on the planet has a better job than I do,” he beamed with exhilaration. His mate introduced himself and told us he was eighteen. Yikes, I thought. I hope the hell they know what they are doing. If I hadn’t been with my thirty-something sons, I would have been selected to ride with one of the groups of older tourists and directed onto another boat.

“We’re just gonna drift a bit and watch. Scan the water’s surface and look for sea turtles,” the captain directed.

“Look!” the first mate yelled and pointed. “A hundred yards to the right!” The ocean surface swelled and bubbled for a minute. I saw a giant turtle shell four feet long flecked with light; the water rippled in front of its flippers that were muscular rigid wings patterned in plates of green and brown. The massive, ancient creature rotated, swerved in a half circle with slow powerful strokes, and then it was gone.

“Whoa,” all of us gasped in unison. Maybe this won’t be so bad after all, I thought. I felt elated, delighted to be on the open water with my sons. My fear and distrust of the captain’s experience was dissipating. He and the first mate were showing off their skill, and enjoyed entertaining us. I understood that they were trying to give the others on board, all eight of the young men, a thrill or two. I was the only woman in the group and fifteen years older than all of them.

This majestic sea turtle like me was an elder who had survived and now thrived despite great obstacles. Again, it was a sign of a steady patient journey through life in sometimes turbulent waters. The newly hatched turtle that I had envisioned myself to be so many years before had caused me to reflect. Its scramble toward the safety of the ocean represented moving at a steady pace and an enduring persistence through major challenges. This older reptile now offered common sense: slow down, go with the flow, be secure in your shell, come up for air when you need to and don’t be afraid to dive back down and explore. 

The craft and crew sat quietly, our eyes scanning the surface of the water. A few minutes later, the captain started the motor and cruised slowly out to sea. He cut the engine again. “This is the spot for whales, but you never know if you will see them.” The boat rocked with the waves. Everyone was alert, watching for movement in the water. 

“There!” the captain yelled. All eyes followed the direction of his pointed finger. A humpback breached, shot out of the water like a sleek missile despite its thirty-five-ton weight. It used its massive fins and core to roll sideways and spin like an athletic ballet dancer in a pirouette. Its ridged white belly rounded up with its entire body above the ocean and rotated over. When its weight hit the surface white plumes of sea spray exploded, bubbled and furled. The enormous creature disappeared then a tail shot up out of the water and its two notched flukes waved like giant black wings, smacking the surface and splashing water twenty feet into the air. I recalled that these massive creatures have hearts as big as a car.

“It looks like there are two males and a female. This is what they do to get her attention,” the captain explained excitedly. “They are competing for her.” I did not understand how he knew there were three whales, but I trusted him now. Our captain was a child of these waters, a born-and-raised bonafide water rat of the highest caliber. His entire life was shaped by these Nā Pali Coast waters. I loved the fact that he was choosing to make a living from what he knew. I decided to trust O Captain, my Captain and relax into this liquid place of waves, wind and wild creatures. 

The myriad of creatures below the surface is a hidden, complex world impossible to comprehend. But rather than fear the unknown, I began to get curious and appreciate the diverse life of a foreign realm that I was now privileged to glimpse. Later I learned that female whales are pursued by multiple males. A group of males charge the female and show off to vie for the lady’s attention. The guys engage in high-speed maneuvers — pivoting, diving and tail slapping to show their dominance. Her suitors decrease in number until one male becomes her primary escort. My Captain knew about these mating rituals. Now, present and paying close attention to what the captain shared, I let the day, literally and figuratively, wash over me, cleanse and heal me. 

Even though I was now an elder, the oldest on the boat, and felt fragile at the beginning of the day, I was able to dive into peace and feel the youthful exuberance of the young men onboard and the playful power of the whales’ mating dance. I forgot that I was sick. I let go of my fear, fear of the inexperienced captain and fear of the unfamiliar ocean, of the vastness of the water.  

That fear was born of my mother’s fear — her fear of water, of the unknown and of ultimately death. She told stories from her childhood of the kids who had drowned in the creeks and rivers of southern Iowa in the early twentieth century. I traced the sun-lit surface water into the darkness below. I realized that I still carried some of that fear from the times we spent near water when I was a girl. 

I remember the boiling hot day when Uncle Merle took us to a lake in northwest Iowa. Merle was married to my mom’s sister, Freda. They had two sons, Nick and Doug. That day, we three kids piled into the back seat and the three adults were propped in the front, accompanied by a cooler of beer at their feet. The winged side windows in front were fully open to vent the clouds of cigarette smoke, but most of it blew into our faces. 

At the lake, Mom chain-smoking and Aunt Freda sipping Schlitz from a can, they sat on the muddy beach, lawn chairs in shallow water and only bare feet with bunions submerged beneath their rolled-up pants. I never saw my mom in a swimming suit. On a hot summer day she wore full-length polyester pants with a ribbed pleat up the front and cotton collared shirts with mid-length sleeves. In that miserable heat, I couldn’t understand how they could be fully clothed and resist cooling off in the water. But neither of them could swim.

No one in mom’s immediate family had ever learned to swim. Swimming in dark watered rivers and lakes in the Midwest represented danger to their generation of landlocked tenant farmers. Now my cousins, boys full of energy, were in water above their waists, laughing, jumping and splashing. Uncle Merle had taught them to swim. I was rolling around in the shallow water, thrilled to escape the torture of the smoky, hot car. Uncle Merle swam out into the deep water and back.

He paddled into the shallows near the women, smiling. “God, Merle, be careful,” Mom warned. He laughed and took my hand then walked slowly into the deeper water with me. I remember him putting his hands under my armpits and swirling me in a circle. I felt free and light until I realized I couldn’t touch the bottom. I held my breath and started to tense.

“It’s okay, I’ve got you,” Uncle Merle reassured me. “Everything is alright.” I felt safe with him. The boys were far enough away and too busy enjoying themselves to think of teasing or dunking me. We went farther from shore to where the water was up to Uncle Merle’s chest. “As long as you don’t fight it, it will hold you up.” He slipped his hands under my arms again. “Kick your feet gently, back and forth.” I was concentrating as I paddled. “Slow down a bit now,” he said with a smile. I learned to accept a new fluid world without stable ground beneath my feet.

For a few seconds, I did not notice he had slipped his hands from under my arms. I was buoyant, keeping my head above the surface. Then I panicked, my face went under, I sucked in a little water, then felt him lift me back to the surface. He wiped the water from my face with one hand. “It’s okay. Spit it out, blow it out. See, you kept yourself above the water when you didn’t fight.” I knew I was okay, that I was safe with Uncle Merle there in the water.

Sometime after that first lesson with Uncle Merle, I learned to swim. Mom signed me up for lessons at the pool. I learned to swim underwater and dive. I even jumped from the high board once or twice. I never liked swimming underwater or diving in head first and never practiced those skills. But I didn’t mind jumping in the water no matter how deep it was, or how far from shore I was. More recently I have jumped off of a boat to snorkel in the middle of the ocean.  I know I can float and stay on top of the water. I have no fear when the water is calm. 

So now when life brings me crashing waves that swell and roll, I am learning to not simply stand at the break where they will smash onto me in full force and knock me under, or let them overpower me in fear. Instead, I paddle into my own calm center, into the shallow or the deep. I am training myself to relax and stay above water. I breathe fully and see differently, pause, look into the depths and marvel at the wonders of nature and embrace the teachings of wild creatures. 

The boat rocked gently, my sons smiling at me. For a few seconds, that small group of us on the raft was at one with those whales, connected with their pure, poignant spirit, joined in the energy of the moment, wet and cold and wowed by the grandeur of their mating play. All of us were at peace, suspended in that raft, floating in calm water with no purpose except to enjoy, and revel in an extraordinary setting.

This surreal ocean scape cradled and rocked me in its magnificence. In the presence of the largest living creatures on earth, and endless water and sky, I released my self-conscious awareness of time and space and engaged completely with my surroundings. I became fully focused on the rock and roll rhythm of the waves and was able to float in the moment. After several minutes of total silence, the captain restarted the engine. “They must have moved,” he said softly, and began to cruise up the coastline.

“One of the advantages of being on this raft is our ability to navigate directly into the sea caves,” My Captain beamed and steered us toward the rugged shoreline, the wind whipping the dark brown curls off his neck. Most of the extraordinary natural beauty of this seventeen-mile-long, mountainous coastline is inaccessible by land or water. “The only way to get inside these caves is in one of these rafts when the tide is low. Let’s hope we’ve timed it right,” the captain yelled. 

We neared the shore where waves crashed onto pocked igneous projections. The raft rocked side to side. The captain slowly steered the craft into the mouth of the chamber. I heard the sides of the raft scrape against the rock of the arched opening. “I’m going to take us in. The tide’s coming up, so we need to duck in and out or we’ll get stuck inside,” the captain explained. I wondered if some of his narration was for effect. But his words made me a bit nervous. 

He steered us through one of the massive stone archways grooved and polished by thousands of years of nature’s work into a narrow channel that entered into a chamber that was open to the sky. A waterfall plummeted through a circular opening in an overhang on the back wall. It fell twelve feet, hit the wall and splashed off the rock.  The caves are miraculously still being sculpted by wind, rainfall and pounding water. We were spellbound by the crescendo and power of the cascading water. The captain gave us a chance to watch for a couple of minutes, and listen to the tools of nature working to chisel this natural theatre. Then My Captain steered us back out through the restricted passageway. He paid close attention to the rocky walls and the water level. 

We bobbed and bounced into and out of a few caves. In one, the opening was so tight, the raft hit a wall. We reached out and touched the wet, rugged rock face with our hands.  The captain snapped his head left then right, to the rear.  I watched his face. He squinted, scrunched his cheeks, and hit the gear shift into reverse. Waves drove the craft into the walls of the chamber. The rig bucked and scraped up and down. I held my breath for a minute, tense, waiting for him to announce that we were stuck. The captain hit the accelerator and the raft shot out into the open water! We were free!  

Skillfully, My Captain steered us out of the cave and up over the wave break, then opened the throttle.   We zoomed up the coast to towering razor-ridged sea cliffs. The emerald-colored pinnacles soared up to 4000 feet, which is over twice as tall as most city skyscrapers. My eyes followed the lush green ridges upward to the clouds amidst the peaks. The sun warmed my wet cotton coverup.  Above our heads the sky was blue and clear. The vertical landscape was immense and made me feel minuscule in its presence.

The captain steered us toward a white sand beach rimmed with a layer of smooth gray volcanic rocks. Sheer cliffs a short distance inland created the backdrop. I hoped we were getting close to a bathroom. My bladder was ready to burst. My stomach started to growl. Another raft was already anchored in the shallow water with an additional small group of visitors. The first mate smiled and said, “They brought our lunch.” I hoped it was time to deboard and eat. 

Several yards from shore, the captain cut the engine. The first mate opened a bag full of snorkel masks, passed them around and told us to jump out. He offered me a hand in support. I slid over the rounded rim and dropped off the side into ankle-deep water. The other young men, including my sons, wasted no time, hopping off the raft with snorkeling gear in hand. We waded a short distance to the rocks. I wobbled, and stepped over the uneven rock surface to stable ground, then headed for the outhouse.    

With the help of the crew from the other raft, the first mate hauled two large coolers into the shade of swaying palm trees. One was full of water and soda drinks, the other with sandwiches and fruit.  We spread our beach towels on the scruffy grass and sat waiting for the okay to grab food and drink. “Come and get it!” the first mate called. 

We gobbled down our turkey sandwiches in a few minutes. The first mate, who was in charge now because the captain had stayed on the raft, told us it was time to snorkel. “We have about two hours here, so grab your gear and get out there!” I did not know at the time that this was one of the best reefs and beaches, a premier spot for viewing sea life. Sitting there with my now full stomach, I noticed my head felt stuffed and achey. I remembered I was sick.

My sons and the other guys were busy tightening their masks and positioning breathing tubes onto their faces. “Aren’t you going in, Mom?” Tadd asked me. 

“No, I am good, go enjoy!” He stared at me for a second and realized that I had made up my mind.

“Are you sure?” Quentin asked.

“Yep, I just need to rest,” I said. The sun felt great. I was almost dry for the first time in several hours and comfortable with my butt on solid ground. They waded into the water along with the others, everyone at their own pace, heading offshore at different angles. I laid back onto my beach towel, stretched out and closed my eyes. I only slightly regretted that I wasn’t in the water.

I couldn’t fall asleep, so I sat up and looked around and saw various bodies swimming at different distances in the turquoise water. Their breathing tubes jutted up from the surface of the ocean here and there. My gaze shifted closer in, onto the rocks. The air smelled like salt, baked cod and warm seaweed. I focused on a yellow fluorescent blob on top of a sea of gray stones. 

I was baffled. The shape, slick texture, and color of the glob were weird. It was too round and translucent to be a sea plant. My curiosity got the best of me. Even though I was exhausted, I walked barefoot across the rocks to get a closer look. 

Twenty feet from the golden mystery, I saw whiskers on a rounded nose. It’s a seal! But it can’t be. It’s yellow with charcoal colored spots, I pondered. It was a Dr. Seuss-like character, right off the pages of a children’s book. It’s not moving, not even a whisker twitch. It must be dead and decomposing. Hmmmm, I wondered and walked back to my towel.

One of the young men who was on board with us waded out of the water, peeled off his snorkel mask, and smiled. He was a tall, strong Asian, handsome, maybe in his late thirties. I felt frumpy and wondered if my nose was bright red from blowing it three thousand times the day before. He walked toward me and sat on a picnic table a few feet away. “How was it?” I asked, wondering if I’d missed some spectacular sea life.

“It was good, great!” he said. “I didn’t get much sleep last night, so I’m a little tired. I’d like to stay in the water longer but I’m exhausted. I just flew in yesterday from Minneapolis and got up early to be here on time this morning.” He introduced himself as Paul. I noticed his gaze was straight across the rocks. My eyes followed the direction of his stare down to the Seussi seal on the basalt bumpy bed where she had taken her last breath. 

“It is a seal,” I said, “a little sad, but natural, I guess.” At the same moment, Suessi slowly lifted a fat little flipper and with a lackadaisical nose tilt and a squiggly half-roll, readjusted her position. “It’s alive!” I blurted out. Paul grinned and snickered a little.

“I thought it was dead too,” Paul admitted. Both of us were Midwesterners from land-locked states, and did not want to appear dumb about the habits of exotic sea creatures. Paul said, “I asked one of the local guys about it earlier. He said they come here to rest and recover after a hard stint of fishing.” 

I was glad that the little seal was alive. She barely moved again. I continued to watch her, curious about her ability to lie dormant and nearly inanimate for the entire time we were on the beach. Suessi was undisturbed and allowed the land creatures to do whatever they liked. The waves crashed and splashed, people shuffled around her, talking loudly, but nothing interrupted her slumber.  

I did not beat myself up for not going into the water. If I had snorkeled, I would not have had the opportunity to sit still by myself and rest, to be present in the moment, absorbing my surroundings. I would not have contemplated Suessi, or wondered if she was dreaming. Do seals dream? I asked myself. If so, what do they dream about? Was Suessi playing under the waves in her sleep, gliding gracefully through the sea, worry free? I imagined she was. 

Suessi turned towards me and our eyes met. Her gaze focused softly upon mine for a moment, then her long lashes slowly shut. Without words she spoke to me. It’s okay to step out of my routine to play and rest and daydream, to open to whatever shows itself to me. It is more than okay. It is necessary. I need to jump into the water when I want to, or to sit on the beach and relax, to be at home in my own skin wherever I am. In a boat full of young men, or alone on a beach soaking up the sun, it’s good to simply wonder and revel in nature.

The others gradually emerged from the water, dried themselves and regrouped. I saw the first mate signal with a hand circle. The captain stood smiling in position behind the steering column of our raft, just offshore. We waded out to the raft and tossed our gear over the side. I climbed the small plastic ladder and used my hands to push down and hop onto the side bump. Quentin and Tadd followed me, then the rest of the young men hopped aboard. Once we were back in our seats rimming the raft, feet under the rope that held us in place, the captain shouted to us, “Is it okay, to let her rip full-speed ahead and get us back before the rain?”

The whole crew yelled back, “Go for it!”

 “We are gonna get a little wet!” The captain grinned and hit the throttle. He steered us back down the coast in the direction of gray clouds.  The water was getting choppier. I sat beside the steering console, close to the captain, gripping the board underneath my behind. Sea spray smacked my face and ran down the front of my coverup, over and over and over. Small rivulets of salty ocean trickled into my eyes. Rain started pouring from the skies, soaking my hair into a soppy wet mess in minutes. My body bounced on the seat, lifted by waves, dropped by gravity. Soon I was drenched, cold, exhausted, and felt sick again. My head throbbed, my entire body shivered, my teeth chattered.  

“Hey, Mama,” the captain shouted to me over the roar of the engine and the rain slapping the boat, “why don’t you take the seat in the back?” The first mate offered me his hand and braced himself in a wide stance. The raft slammed into another wave; cold water sprayed my shoulder and soaked the first mate. He gracefully pivoted, reached out and gently rotated me into the back corner seat of the boat. The steering column blocked the water from directly flying into my face at full force. I was a little more protected.

“You okay, Mama?” the first mate yelled. I shook my head yes. The rain slowed, but the rest of the gang were silently taking the consistent dousing. Everyone was cold but no one complained on the return to shore. O Captain! my Captain! Our fearful trip is done, / The ship has weathered every rack, the prize we sought is won…

I was touched by the captain and the first mate’s attention, moved by their concern for me, and honored that they called me Mama. I’ve learned that sometimes it’s good to put myself out there, out of my comfort zone into the middle of the waves. I’ve learned that whenever I fight, I move into fear, I separate myself from my potential to float freely, to stay buoyant, to dip and swerve and swirl in the waves of life. Time in nature teaches me to surrender to my surroundings, bask in the moment, jump up and over the waves or dive straight into them.  

It’s okay to take time to nurture myself as well, good to rest on solid ground when I need to pace myself. But when I jump into life, especially nature, it surprises and delights me with gifts I never would have envisioned. Caretakers and messengers come in the form of mixed, wondrous packages. Young Hawaiian men who are strangers can feel like sons and call me Mama. Extraordinary caves and waterfalls delight me.  The open ocean fascinates and dazzles. Whether in compact caves or on the vast sea, I need to stay calm and let the water buoy me up, allow Mother Earth to cradle me, hold me in her arms, and to welcome me.

I might have lived with my mother’s fear of water for my entire life if not for Uncle Merle. His lessons taught me to let the water keep me afloat. In the muddy lakes, ponds and rivers in Iowa, it is not possible to see below the surface of the water. But with that first swim lesson, I began to let go of the fear of the unknown beneath the surface of life and trust that I can keep myself safe. Currents can drag me off shore, waves can tumble me or smack me off my feet. But when I dance and play in the water, float and stay calm, paying attention to the pull of the current or where the waves break, I can shift course. I can swim ashore for a rest, or dive in or up and over challenges, letting go of the fear and rise to the top for air when needed, sustain and persevere. Wild creatures instinctively know what to do.

In a single day animal messengers may vary from a small, silent seal and a majestic sea  turtle to humpback whales. The whales are the largest living creatures on earth with a song that can be heard two miles away by humans and hundreds of miles from their own species. The turtle emerged as the first sign of life brimming and enduring below the surface. The whales were so lively, full of motion in their acrobatic dance of love perfected over millennia.. The seal was so peaceful and serene in her seaside slumber and accepting of the diversity around her.  Wherever I am, in an exotic landscape or just outside my door, I absorb some mysterious force from animals that I call wisdom. Their presence is magical. Their energy is nurturing. Their power is healing. 

Copyright © 2026 by Robin Montgomery Kennedy. Read her ‘Red-Tailed Hawk Revealed’ here. 
‘O Captain! My Captain!’ was written by Walt Whitman. Photographs courtesy of Quentin Kennedy, Russ Mullen, and Danny Rienecker, Mike Doherty, Balesstudio, Eddie Mark Blair, Jim Carroll, Sebastien, Zdeněk Macháček and Natalia Gusakova on Unsplash.