Floating world

A placid stretch of the Raquette River, Sugar Island Flow, runs just behind my place and I have not been out on it since a falling tree during the great Ice Storm tragically snapped the back of my old canoe—a bizarre yellow and black job my father had "customized" by replacing the cane seats with an untidy cat's cradle of nylon clothesline, then shored up the rotted gunwales with split PVC pipe bolted through the hull. I've long been in the market for a low-budget replacement.

In discussing the possibilities, I quickly ran into the phenomenon of kayak evangelism. I have nothing against kayaks—they’re perfect for walrus hunting. Next time I go, I'll wish I had one. But kayakers shill their chosen craft with fanatic devotion. They natter on about hydrodynamics, ergonomics, maneuverability and speed. Yawn. If I was in a hurry, I’d take the car. No whitewater thrills for me--rapids are a nice place to put in above for a picnic. I can gnosh a little and watch the crash-helmeted kayakers suck Kryptonite-colored energy drinks from their CamelBacks while battling back up the drops by brute force and iron will. Then I might catch a little nap.

So despite the arm-twisting, I've settled on another canoe. It may be a sun-faded, scraped-up red slab of petrochemicals, but it will keep me in and the water out. It will go upstream under a moderate supply of muscle power, and will drift back down powered by nothing but the grace of God. As soon as I mail this out, you know where I’ll be.

Up with the tweeters

For me, summer does not properly begin until I have had one sunny day out on the water. Sad to say, there was no summer last year--stranded on the strand. But Jim took pity on me, calling me last Sunday to help wet down the hull on this year’s maiden voyage of the Gypsy Wind. It was pretty still for sailing, so we left the mast unstepped and tootled around Norwood Pond courtesy of a sedate 2-horse outboard. Sweet sun, puffy clouds, amiable conversation, and--as always with Jim--a steady supply of strength-giving M&Ms. It takes a minimum of gear to restore the soul. The less the better in fact, as we saw at the other end of the afternoon, watching the Chinese fire drill of monster boats and jet skis clogging up the ramp.

But already now I need another dose; all the heart’s ease wore off Monday morning as I donned my bullet-shaped helmet and silver suit, and slid myself down the barrel of the circus cannon that fires me off into the work week. Each day since has twisted the turnbuckle strapped across my shoulderblades a little tighter. I wake with the freaking tweeters—I mean the dawn chorus—and plot my next escape.