POST 3 — The Canal That Broke Me
Updated: Oct 10
April 24–30, 2013
After days of fast water and momentum on the Elbe, I drifted beneath something that didn't seem like it should exist: the Havel Canal bridge. A floating river in the sky, built to carry cargo ships over the valley — and over me.
I didn't paddle the canal itself, just passed under it. But even from below, it hit me hard. I'm not usually one for marvelling at infrastructure, but this thing was different. It felt like someone took the ocean, bent it into a pipe, and strung it across the land. Standing below it in a kayak, dwarfed by the idea of it all, I felt a weird awe — not for nature this time, but for what people are actually capable of building.
Then, I paddled on.
Field Repairs and Pirate Engineering
Then came the Lübeck Canal, and I swear, it was built by someone who hated joy.
I overshot the entrance by five kilometres, which meant paddling upstream to get back into it. Perfect start. The canal itself wasn't ugly — in fact, some stretches were green and calm — but it was slow. So slow. The current was barely a rumour. Seven locks broke the rhythm, each one a gatekeeper to a slightly less enthusiastic version of me.
After the rush of the Elbe, it felt like trying to sprint through syrup.
I stopped checking my speed. It was just demoralising. Every kilometre felt earned through spite and stubbornness. I watched a duck paddle past me at one point and considered asking if it wanted to race.
Dinner of Champions
At some point I gave up on trying to cook. My stove was still unreliable, and I couldn't be bothered. I ate cold oats soaked in water. For dessert: peanut butter, straight from the jar. Not a snack — a coping strategy. Each spoonful was a reward for not setting the kayak on fire.
I wasn't tired in the usual way. I was dulled. Like my brain was wrapped in gauze. I started talking to the locks. Thanking them. Complaining to them. Apologising to them when I scraped the sides.
Out of Place
One night I pulled into a rowing club and camped near a fleet of beautiful, carbon-fibre shells. They were light, fast, precision tools — the kind of boats that get medals and applause. My kayak? It looked like a fieldworker who wandered into a fencing match. Scuffed, stubborn, heavy — not built for trophies. Built for endurance.
Still, it was mine. And it was still moving forward, which is more than I could say for my mood.
The Kindness that Cracked Me
On one of the last days before the sea, a couple waved to me from the riverbank. I waved back, expecting the usual curious stare. Instead, they handed me sandwiches — no big speech, no fuss. Just: "You look like you could use this."
They have no idea what that meant. After a week of sludge, locks, and mental fog, a sandwich felt like a miracle. It reminded me that, out here, strangers sometimes see you better than you see yourself.
Still Moving
I clocked a few 50-kilometre days, fuelled by stubbornness, sugar, and the sheer refusal to stop. The canal didn't kill me. It didn't even break me, not really. It just shaved off a layer of ego and left me a little quieter.
Not every part of a journey is epic. Some are just long, flat, and necessary.
This was one of them.