Until I encountered a lithograph of "Pacific" -- a 1967 painting of a shirtless man standing carefree and staring out to the ocean with his back turned to a handgun on a table -- I believed Canadian art was benign. Group of Seven landscapes were beautiful, but they were neither riveting nor cool in the way a 16-year-old would think art is cool. This? This was cool.
As I prepare for my kayaking trip from San Francisco to Hawaii, my pseudo-brother says "you know you'll be in the Red Triangle, don't you? It's where all the Great White Sharks are!" I count out how far I might paddle in it and realize I'll be sleeping with the sharks for two or three days. My mind races, I imagine what my kayak might look like from the sea below. Will I be tasty? Or even tempting?
In a few days, I will begin a long, arduous, dangerous journey. Solo, unsupported, no additional assistance, resupply or shadow boat, I will kayak solo from San Francisco to Hawaii. 3,100 miles, 45 to 65 days, battling giant waves, killer great white sharks, and all that Mother Nature will throw at me. Why am I doing this?