I don’t want to move, to pull a boat, to walk anywhere, or touch a paddle. I don’t want to set up camp or break it down, to light an alcohol stove, boil water, or swirl a spoon through oatmeal. I don’t want to squeeze equipment into dry bags, to shove gear into hatches, to slide spare paddles under bungies, or strap down a tarp.
I don’t want to look at a GPS, read a map, or care what mood the wind is in. I don’t want to put on salt-encrusted clothes, to squeeze my head through a spray jacket, or pack a damp sleeping bag. I don’t want to think about water, drink from a jug, or spread sunscreen on my face.
I don’t want to pull wet neoprene covers over hatches, to feel a single grain of sand against my skin, or wind-blown spray in my cheeks. I don’t want to taste salt, to listen to a weather radio, or watch clouds in the distance.
I don’t want to do anything, nothing, not one thing beyond sleep in my bed. It is nice to be home.