One with the water

Anyone who knows me knows I buy, sell and trade kayaks like they’re baseball cards. But, I get questioned about how I decide what, when and why.

For the most part, the sell decision has to do with when I sense there’s someone who will get more enjoyment out of the boat than I am. Other times, I got out of the boat what I wanted and it’s time to explore more alternatives.

I buy when a boat speaks to me. There’s a kayak speaking to me now. Somewhere, there’s a kindred soul who conceived this boat.

Or, maybe not. The goal seemed to be to come up with a craft that would enable you to enjoy the water in multiple ways. But, the description only touts two: paddle it like a kayak or stand up and paddle the boat like a board. I could see laying on it like a surfboard or kneeling as in a canoe. Or just rolling off and floating along with it.

On a recent trip to Florida, our paddling group hit at least four paddling venues, depending upon individual inclination. Most of them seemed to favor the day we snorkeled with manatees. Not me. My favorite was the Rainbow River.

On that day, we paddled upstream about two miles to the main spring that creates the river. There, we rolled off our kayaks and snorkeled back down, our boats floating along with us. If you wanted a rest, snack or drink of water, your boat was right there.

The water was clear and filled with animal and plant life. You were in it, on it and through it. You were one with the water.

That’s what this newly introduced kayak seems to be saying. And, I’m listening.

Hocking memories

The countdown has begun for another adventure, so I’m back to displacement activity to deal with the wait. This trip engenders a lot of good memories. Once in a while, you encounter those magic moments. Things unexpectedly coalesce into something wonderful. And, try as you might, you can never recreate it.

I’m leading an overnight paddling trip in the Hocking Hills this weekend. Going there never fails to evoke memories of such a moment.

About 25 years ago, I led such a trip. Saturday, we paddled in uncharacteristically cold and blustery weather. That night brought rain to the camp, which continued the next day through our hiking. We completed our last trail and piled into our vehicles, joining the sodden heaps of camping gear. Home was looking good.

The lead vehicle got lost trying to find the way back to the highway on the winding and hilly back roads. At the first opportunity, he pulled off so we could convene and discuss the situation. That was the gravel parking lot of an isolated country restaurant.

We decided that we could think straighter with full bellies, so we went inside. From the outside, it was an exquisitely maintained large frame house with a generous porch encircling it. It was predominantly white with elaborate red trim. Quaint and charming don’t even begin to describe the interior.

The round tables were full, so the hostess suggested we wait in the parlor (yes, she said “parlor”) or out back. Outside? In the chill and drizzle?

We looked out the bay window and the sun was shining brightly on a duck pond surrounded by Adirondack chairs. We went outside and the hostess followed with fresh squeezed lemonade, compliments of the house.

There, we sat, sunning ourselves like contented lizards on hot rocks and the mood swung sharply upward. We almost hated to go in when she rang the dinner bell, but the meal was well worth it. You didn’t order. You just sat around the gingham tablecloth and the hostess brought bowl after bowl of steaming home cooking out to share in. This experience made the weekend.

We found our way back to civilization, but no one noted the route. The next year, we were determined to end the trip on the same high note, but couldn’t find the place. We didn’t know the name of it either. So, our descriptions rendered to various clerks at gas stations, stores and the like only produced puzzled head shaking.

We made another attempt the following year, this time asking everyone we encountered from day one. More dry holes. This would reiterate year after year.

When I had about given up, we were on a bus shuttle for the river trip supplied by a local canoe outfitter. The bus driver looked like he could’ve lived there for many decades. So, I worked my way up the aisle of the old school bus and plopped down on the seat behind him. I ran through the description, which by now was a matter of rote.

“Sure I know it. That’s Dora’s place.”

I almost fell over. Not believing my ears, I began to run through some of the details, just to be sure.

“I said I know the place.”

Well all right then! “Can you tell me how to get there?”

“Sure can.”

I was almost delirious with glee. “Wait a minute! Let me get a pen and paper.”

I strided my way down the length of the rocking bus and excitedly demanded writing implements. My friends dug through what little belongings they brought along for the paddling portion of the trip while my hands fluttered around in frustrated gestures. Someone dredged up a pencil stub and a deposit slip and asked what the crisis was. I grabbed them and revealed the news. Everyone clapped and cheered.

Back at the front of the bus, I took down the directions. Then, I repeated them back in painstaking detail, not wanting to err after coming this far. This wasn’t all that easy as the driver wasn’t a patient man.

“Do you know if she’s still open Sundays?”

“Yes.” Jackpot! “She ain’t.” One more switchback like that might kill me.

But, there was still tonight. “How late is she open on Saturday?”

“She ain’t.”

“She’s not open on weekends?”

“She ain’t open any time. Ol’ Dora bought the farm a couple years ago.”

“She’s dead?”

“As a doornail.”

“But when I asked you…”

“You asked me if I knew the place you were talking about and how to get there. I did and I told you.” Fair enough. And, that about did finish me off. It was a long walk to the back of the bus, which was full of expectant faces.

Well, there’s always some new treasure to uncover and good memories to be made, possibly even this weekend.

Someone else's eyes

Everyone from our recent Florida kayak trip received an invitation to a reunion party where we would share videos and photos. Someone commented to me that it would be fun to get together with the group because it was such a great time. But, wouldn’t all the footage be repetitive? After all, we were on the same trip.

In my experience, this hasn’t been the case. And, it was verified at the party.

For one thing, you could be at the same spot and everyone could see something else of interest. Your position, angle and other factors affect that. And, the type of camera and lens also has impact.

More importantly, I’ve noticed that different shooters in the group have varied areas of concentration. One shoots nature and there are few people in his shots. Another goes for artistic composition. To me, these trips are largely about the people.

I think everyone was pleasantly surprised. It was very interesting to see the trip through someone else’s eyes. May be a metaphor in there somewhere.

Glass houses

I will admit that I’m a little scratchy today. Aside from reacting to the over-the-top pollen count, I had to burn the entire morning in a government office to renew a permit of sorts. I won’t bore you with detail, but it was basically something that I tried to handle in the prescribed way by email, but was rejected because this department changed specs and inadvertently invalidated some of what they had previously sanctioned. Fixing the glitch never occurred to them.

I tried to supply the required information by email and then phone, but they insisted I come in. Let’s see, which makes more sense; I transmit the information and they email or mail me the new number, or I drive a couple hours, supply the same data and wait a couple more for the wheels to grind?

During the wait, I’m treated to the gleeful chuckles of the receptionist surfing her favorite web sites. My tax dollars at work. She looked up and asked if I read “Stuff My Father Says” or whatever it is. I reply in the negative and she says I should try it.

I did when it started cropping up all over the web. The first item I read was enough. He related something “stupid” his father said (assuming it was his father and not a metaphorical generation gap thing) in response to his request to borrow a pair of underwear.

Excuse me? You can’t even manage your underwear supply, but it’s your father who’s the stupid one? I have better sources of wisdom, thank you.

Tax refunds

“The 15th is next week,” she threw out casually over dinner. Translation: Remember, you tend to focus hard on a few priorities and are oblivious to the rest.

“My taxes are done,” I muttered in a tone intended to discourage further conversation. Good luck on that.

“And, you weren’t happy with that?”

“I don’t worry about what I cannot control.”

“So?”

“Refund.”

“How much?”

I hesitated. “Four figures.”

“Ooooo. Found money. Do I sense an upcoming expedition or new kayak?”

“Not found money. My money.”

I don’t delight in tax refunds. What that means is the government was sitting on my assets and I wasn’t getting any return on them from them or anyone else. I accept responsibility because when I anticipated this situation for 2009, I didn’t adjust the withholding enough. The salt in the wound is that when the situation is reversed, the government will exact its pound of flesh in penalty and interest. It’s a one-way street.

For some, it may be a good substitute for a savings discipline. But, I allocate savings and investment before I get down to disposable income. I don’t need or want the government managing my budget.

“And it’s still your money. I’ll help you celebrate that. How about a nice getaway weekend?”

"That would be nice." Or, I could look at some kayak catalogs.