We had just passed the yellow sign tacked to a tree alerting us that we were on mile four of the river. I’d been doing great, surprising myself. I was in the lead, Greg trailing behind me. I had managed to navigate the river like this wasn’t the third time I’d ever kayaked (first time in a river), dragging my paddle when I needed to slow down, digging deep when I needed to speed up. It’s safe to say, I was impressed with myself.
So impressed, in fact, that I started to think I might have missed a calling. Are there adult rowing teams, I wondered as I navigated around a small rapid. My shoulders had never felt stronger, my posture never better. Just minutes ago, I had paddled UPSTREAM in order to wait for Greg when he was stuck on a log. I was basically a pro.
And then. Ahead, hanging over the river was a fallen tree, reaching out over the water. And from that tree hung some branches. I’d come up against branches before, ducking under them, making it to the other side. Sure this branch was thicker than the others, more dense.
I felt the instant it happened, that tree trunk in the sky hooking my life vest, snagging me, yanking me back. My kayak tipped, spilling me into the river. I curled my toes, trying to keep my new Teva flip-flops on my feet. I scooped up my favorite Reds cap, grabbed for my paddle, all while hanging on to the kayak. My feet sank into silt.
I looked back at Greg, trying to drag his paddle to stop to help.
“Do you still have your phone?” he hollered. I felt my pocket. I nodded, pulling it out, noticing I was getting text messages as the river rushed around me. I handed it to him as he floated past. Priorities.
Thankfully there were some experienced kayakers just ahead of us. They noticed me standing there, chest deep, Greg trying to stay even with me. They paddled up the river, talking me through how to get myself back on track. They crowded me into a calm spot. The bearded guy, the one who looked like one of my former students, held my paddle, sidled his kayak up to mine and held it steady.
“Go ahead,” he said encouragingly.
“This isn’t going to be pretty,” I said to him, laughing but embarrassed. Putting my pride aside, I plopped my body back into the kayak.
Thoughts of joining an adult rowing team were dashed as he gave me the most rudimentary lessons in kayaking — things I already knew, but he felt like he needed to tell me: how to hold the paddle, how far to dip them in, how to turn. That’s how ridiculous I looked to him.
The group of men let us go ahead of them; they with their life-jackets stowed near their feet, playing a game of catch, their ease on the river a mockery of my mishap. We said our thanks and continued on our way.
A mile later, not yet dry, I tipped again. Same situation. Trees dipping reaching towards the river snagged me. It was as if I were a magnet for these dense, cataclysmic branches. This time, I knew what to do. I flipped the kayak back over and shoved it to the small beach I’d been trying to avoid. Once again, of course, I had an audience.
Thank goodness for the kindness of strangers. I hurried to get back into the kayak, glancing up river. I did not want to be wading in the water when my rescuers from earlier came around the bend.
We made it the final two miles without much fanfare. I managed to avoid any more trees, only getting caught and stuck once. I had given up my dream of an adult rowing team by mile seven, right around the time I got beached up against a snarl of tree branches and had to push myself off twice. At mile eight, I paddled my kayak into the small bank and barely dragged it up to the grassy area.
It was a good day. Inspiring & invigorating. Humbling.
