It all began one morning when I was walking on the beach after a storm and found a kayak paddle. Now that’s a treasure. I took it home and with help on the other end was able to pull it apart, clean off the salt residue, lubricate the connection and put it back together. Then, I looked it up online and found out that new that paddle cost $88. Clearly, this was a sign from the mysterious forces ruling the universe that I was meant to be a kayaker.
Fortuitously, I have a nephew with a fleet of kayaks. Even more fortuitously, his children had traded their interest in kayaking for welding, theater and bicycling, respectively. He was eager to part with whatever boats I was willing to take.
So now I had a kayak and a paddle. Where to use it? Ten minutes away is Rocky Hill with a tiny dock providing access to the D&R Canal. But how was I going to get the kayak to the canal in my Honda Civic?
Most folks carry their kayaks on the roof of their car. My new kayak weighed 52 lbs. so if I bought a roof rack, I’d still have to lift this really unwieldy craft onto the top of the car without either destroying my car or killing myself.
I settled on an alternative. I lowered the back seats and slid the kayak through the trunk up to the back of the passenger seat. It fit with only about two feet sticking out.
Before I got on the road, I wanted to make sure the kayak was visible to traffic behind me. Even though it was a bright aqua, I decided it needed a flag tied to its stern. Among my beach finds was a faded, torn flag attached to a washed-up lobster buoy.
I spray-painted the flag a bright orange and then, compulsively, sewed up the rips. Since it was a flag, I thought “just like Betsy Ross,” but that conflicted with my hyper-masculine self-image. So I re-envisioned myself as an old salt repairing canvas, like a character in Ultimately, as always happens when I pick up needle and thread, I saw myself paying tribute to my long-deceased Uncle Morris the tailor who immigrated to this country in the early 1920s.
Finally, how was I going to get the kayak from car to canal? Dragging it on gravel would lead to holes in the hull.
Yet, again, divine forces were in operation. A friend had a set of kayak wheels that she bought years ago but never used. She gave them to me. The axle was too wide for the kayak, So I trimmed it with a hacksaw. After tying down the car’s trunk with a bungee cord, I set off for my maiden voyage on the canal.
It was a beautiful day with the trees and sky reflected strikingly in the water. While paddling, I saw turtles, one merganser, and a bag of garbage snagged on a log. Not one single alligator.
I soon got into the “zone” (whatever that is) and began musing about the usual: What is the meaning of life? Are dolphins as smart as people? Will the orange ex-president go to jail?
Also, among my thoughts was all thatI didn’t know about paddling. As soon as I got home I resolved to consult Google, the source of all wisdom, sort of like the Tree of Knowledge in the Garden of Eden.
After an hour on the water, exiting the kayak was not graceful. I slipped on the canal’s muddy bank and fell in. Fortunately, it was 90 degrees and humid, so the dunking was quite refreshing.
My online research revealed that everything I was doing was wrong. I arrived for my second voyage on the canal armed with exquisite advice on paddling. The most important tip was to rotate my body with each stroke. Boy, did that make a difference. I didn’t need to desperately grip the paddle as if I were hanging from the edge of a cliff. My palms no longer bled. Kayaking had become much more comfortable, smoother.
I paddled for an hour feeling proud and at peace. When I got back to the dock, I did not fall into the water, but I did find myself slithering out of the boat clumsily. There must be a better way.
I also learned online that kayaking is good for every muscle and organ, so beneficial for the body that continuing to paddle will guarantee my living forever.
A final observation: If kayaks are not for you, there are plain yaks to visit at two farms in nearby Stockton. Not only can you stare at the yaks, you can also buy yak steaks, yak sausage and yak-wool socks.
