One Oar in the Water
Every so often, while channel surfing or reading the funny pages, you run across an ancient gag wherein a friendly get-together bogs down in stupefied boredom while the hosts present a travelogue of their latest vacation.
Lucky for you that my summer vacation to Maine was so exciting, hunh? Because for the seventh straight week, I'm worming a mention of that trip into this column.
Maine is topical today because I've acquired a permanent reminder of the trip. No, not the stuffed and mounted carcass of a Penobscot Bay mosquito — although that is a pretty good idea.
I've purchased a kayak. (Sorry, I spelled that completely backwards; it should read "kayak.")
Actually, the kayak is my birthday gift from my family, a gift that they thoughtfully allowed me to pay for and lug home (we bought it from a family down the block).
We got kayaking in our blood by renting a couple of two-seat boats during our week in Maine. Each day we'd wrangle the kayaks to the water's edge over the, ahem, "coarse sand" of the Penobscot Bay shoreline. ("Coarse sand" is Maine-speak for boulders ranging in size from "Giant Schnauzer" to "Boeing 737.")
Then we'd climb in the kayaks and call upon our innate water-going instincts to smoothly and effortlessly spin around in random little circles while criticizing our partner's paddling techniques.
Having returned home with only a few dozen paddle bruises on our heads and upper bodies, we decided that we're a kayaking family. Well, my wife and I did, anyway. It didn't bother us a bit when the people selling us the kayak said theythought THEY were a kayaking family, until they used it — four times total — and realized they weren't.
Though we've only owned the kayak a few weeks, we're already developing a fondness for the routines and rituals of boating. There's the keen anticipation of the kids that they'll be able to talk their way out of going. There's the firm grip with which I grasp and drag them out of the house to by gum have some "fun." There's the thrilling risk of sending all the soft tissue in my body into spasm while hoisting the kayak into the van. There's the exhilarating rush of fear that the kayak will fall out of the back of the van in heavy traffic. And finally, when we're on the water, there's the timeless and soothing rhythm of the kids whining, "How much longer do we have to do this?!"
Our kayak was made by the Old Town Canoe company. It's a "Loon 138T" model, designed for "recreational touring." I think this means it's pretty much the mini-van of kayaks — functional but way uncool. It's not a kayak that'll be featured in the centerfold of "Playboating" (the actual name of an actual magazine about kayaking, published in England).
So far, I've had only one embarrassing incident with the kayak. That I'm willing to tell you about.
One Saturday morning, I decided to take my first solo voyage on Lake Michigan. Utilizing my few remaining unspasmed soft tissues, I lugged the kayak down to the beach. The gentle swells I'd observed from the parking lot didn't look so gentle as I put the boat in the water, but I was confident I knew what I was doing. Wrong.
For over the next several minutes, the dozen or so people lolling on the beach delightedly observed as I repeatedly tried — and failed — to get into the doggone kayak. I'm pretty sure I looked like an "America's Funniest Videos" finalist, where some tenderfoot is bucked off an ornery horse. I tried once, twice, thrice, fice — each time capturing the perfect moment when a not-so-gentle swell lifted the boat, which sent me cannonballing back into the water. . .I suppose rather comically, if you're the type who's amused by that sort of thing.
I finally managed to throw myself in, sort of like a salmon swimming up a waterfall, and paddled as hard as I could to escape the laughter of the people on the beach. Unfortunately, I never did get that sound out of my head. You can't get too far from the shore when you're spinning around in random little circles.
Write me a-boat your summer vacation oar I'll keep writing about mine. TakefiveT5@yahoo.com.
Lucky for you that my summer vacation to Maine was so exciting, hunh? Because for the seventh straight week, I'm worming a mention of that trip into this column.
Maine is topical today because I've acquired a permanent reminder of the trip. No, not the stuffed and mounted carcass of a Penobscot Bay mosquito — although that is a pretty good idea.
I've purchased a kayak. (Sorry, I spelled that completely backwards; it should read "kayak.")
Actually, the kayak is my birthday gift from my family, a gift that they thoughtfully allowed me to pay for and lug home (we bought it from a family down the block).
We got kayaking in our blood by renting a couple of two-seat boats during our week in Maine. Each day we'd wrangle the kayaks to the water's edge over the, ahem, "coarse sand" of the Penobscot Bay shoreline. ("Coarse sand" is Maine-speak for boulders ranging in size from "Giant Schnauzer" to "Boeing 737.")
Then we'd climb in the kayaks and call upon our innate water-going instincts to smoothly and effortlessly spin around in random little circles while criticizing our partner's paddling techniques.
Having returned home with only a few dozen paddle bruises on our heads and upper bodies, we decided that we're a kayaking family. Well, my wife and I did, anyway. It didn't bother us a bit when the people selling us the kayak said theythought THEY were a kayaking family, until they used it — four times total — and realized they weren't.
Though we've only owned the kayak a few weeks, we're already developing a fondness for the routines and rituals of boating. There's the keen anticipation of the kids that they'll be able to talk their way out of going. There's the firm grip with which I grasp and drag them out of the house to by gum have some "fun." There's the thrilling risk of sending all the soft tissue in my body into spasm while hoisting the kayak into the van. There's the exhilarating rush of fear that the kayak will fall out of the back of the van in heavy traffic. And finally, when we're on the water, there's the timeless and soothing rhythm of the kids whining, "How much longer do we have to do this?!"
Our kayak was made by the Old Town Canoe company. It's a "Loon 138T" model, designed for "recreational touring." I think this means it's pretty much the mini-van of kayaks — functional but way uncool. It's not a kayak that'll be featured in the centerfold of "Playboating" (the actual name of an actual magazine about kayaking, published in England).
So far, I've had only one embarrassing incident with the kayak. That I'm willing to tell you about.
One Saturday morning, I decided to take my first solo voyage on Lake Michigan. Utilizing my few remaining unspasmed soft tissues, I lugged the kayak down to the beach. The gentle swells I'd observed from the parking lot didn't look so gentle as I put the boat in the water, but I was confident I knew what I was doing. Wrong.
For over the next several minutes, the dozen or so people lolling on the beach delightedly observed as I repeatedly tried — and failed — to get into the doggone kayak. I'm pretty sure I looked like an "America's Funniest Videos" finalist, where some tenderfoot is bucked off an ornery horse. I tried once, twice, thrice, fice — each time capturing the perfect moment when a not-so-gentle swell lifted the boat, which sent me cannonballing back into the water. . .I suppose rather comically, if you're the type who's amused by that sort of thing.
I finally managed to throw myself in, sort of like a salmon swimming up a waterfall, and paddled as hard as I could to escape the laughter of the people on the beach. Unfortunately, I never did get that sound out of my head. You can't get too far from the shore when you're spinning around in random little circles.
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posted by Don Stuart at 8:46 AM
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