My sister and her husband have the brilliant idea of
inviting me to go kayaking with them.
I
love them for this because I have always wanted to try kayaking.
I've paddled a blow-up raft; loved it.
I've paddled a canoe; loved it.
I've paddled a row boat; loved it.
I've long suspected that I will love
kayaking, too.
I also love them for
inviting me because this means that they tolerate being seen with me in public,
or, at least, being seen with me on a remote lake in the middle of the
woods.
So, when they ask, I jump at the
opportunity.
I plan to meet them in New Hampshire at a mid-sized lake
that is an hour drive for each of us. We
make lists of what to bring, but my list is short because they won't let me
bring anything, not even my lunch.
A little side note about our family's penchant for
list-making. People think we make lists
because we are OCD. It is exactly the
opposite. We are DCO -- Disturbingly
Careless Organizers. This DCO condition
has led my siblings and me to make lists, lots of them, to make sure we don't
get sieve-brain and forget something important (like a child or two or
three). DCO has also made my siblings
and me slightly OCD in our own ways, as well.
I guess that makes us the DCO-OCD List Maker Clan.
My sister and I phone each other to plan the meeting point
as if we are Colonel Chamberlain strategizing how to hold on to Little Round
Top at Gettysburg. We bring up maps and
websites and finally decide to meet in the parking lot of the Raymond, NH
Wal-Mart at 9:30 a.m.
I Mapquest the entire ride.
It looks like forty-five minutes for me.
I plan accordingly and give myself a ten minute buffer. The morning of the trip, I set my GPS,
expecting similar results.
Unfortunately, my GPS tells me I'm an hour away from the meeting
spot. Crap. I've given myself
fifty-five minutes. If I'm going to make
it on time, I'm going to have to haul ass.
I do the last minute list-check of everything I need, which amounts to
sunscreen and a change of clothes in case I fall in the lake. I also throw in a towel and a plastic bag in
case I fall in the lake. The camera
stays home, though, in case I fall in the lake.
I hit some traffic, not much, though, for an early morning
weekday of back road travel, but the trip is not without its quirks. There are lights, possibly a mile or so
apart, and after each light, the speed limit goes to 55 mph. All of a sudden, just as I'm getting into the
groove, the limit drops to 40 mph, and there's a traffic light. Stop, start, repeat; 55 mph to 40 mph to dead
stop. I feel like I'm playing that old
kids' game Red Light, Green Light
only I'm playing it against the state of New Hampshire. Worst part is that I seem to be losing.
Finally my GPS, who is Scottish comedian Billy Connolly,
instructs me to turn right … turn right … TURN RIGHT.
I'm nervous because I suddenly see not one
but two police cars cruising the parking lot where I am about to grab a remote
space.
I pass the little strip mall to
the right and pull into the massive parking lot to the left.
I see the large concrete building with the
familiar blue sign on top, and I park at the end with the garden center, but I
park way out.
I have a great spot and
can see anyone pulling into the lot.
I text my sister to tell her I'm going to run into Wal-Mart
and use the bathroom before we go kayaking.
If I can avoid peeing on a remote island out in the middle of the lake,
that would probably be a grand idea. I
enter the store and immediately notice that it is set up like a warehouse,
complete with extra high ceilings and large steel girders. Unusual set up for a Wal-Mart, to be sure,
but not exactly unique. The Methuen
store is inside an open warehouse, as well, except that one is a dump compared
to this one. I also notice that they
have appliances and a few other things, and I marvel that this looks more like
Home Depot than Wal-Mart.
I ask an associate to point me in the direction of the
restrooms, and she politely steers me toward the front wall. As I walk into the alcove, I see two water
fountains with the clearly written logo and name LOWES.
Lowes? Lowes! How the hell did I not notice that this is
Lowes and not Wal-Mart?
I immediately take out my phone and text my sister,
"I'm parked at Loews.
Ooops."
The only problem with this text message is that I am not
wearing my glasses. Unbeknownst to me, I
text my sister, "Ik pRklrf Lodea.
Poops." I quickly use the
facilities then rush back out to my car to retrieve my glasses. I make phone corrections and explain via text
that the Lowes parking lot is the first big lot she and her husband will see
when they pull into the plaza. Wal-Mart
is nowhere to be seen and is probably around the corner down the secluded
street across from Lowes.
The Lowes lot, as I discovered when I pulled in, appears to
be the haven for the local police -- all two of them. I'm leaving the car here for safety,
security, and out of sheer laziness. My
kayak hosts arrive, carrying three kayaks on a trailer behind them. We reorganize my few belongings from my car
to their SUV, and we are off in search of Lake Pawtuckaway.
The trip to the lake isn't far from the rendezvous spot, and
we discover that even though we arrive a little later than planned, the lot for
the kayak launch is empty except for one car that is parked and one car that is
down the short trail at the launch site's shore.
Before we even unload the trailer, we hear a
loon, apparently a perturbed loon, screeching at the woman at the car on the
shore.
We decide to carry the kayaks
down ourselves, hoping to avoid pissing the loon off any more than it already
appears to be.
Once we are all geared up and put in all three kayaks, I am
pleased to discover that I can balance and paddle myself around pretty
easily. I am having a grand old time and
an even grander one when my brother-in-law informs me that I have the paddles
upside down. Duh. Oh, well. First timer, right? Thankfully my paddling improves once I have
been corrected; I was afraid it might get worse.
The lake is huge.
When we were kids, our father brought us to Lake Pawtuckaway many times
to swim at the small beach they have. As
an adult, I once boated this lake with friends.
I am surprised, though, that there are no motor boats out on the lake
and that there are signs in many places warning against wakes. Rocks protrude out of the lake like volcanoes
in the Ring of Fire. I start wondering how we ever managed to tool around the
lake tubing, or, perhaps, it was my imagination or I'm mistaken or my brain has
just gone soft.
I have a terrible sense of direction. As we pass the ledge where the rock climbers
go, I note that it is to my right, over my shoulder, and that hopefully I can
find it again if I get lost on the lake.
After all, I completely forgot to make note of where we came in or note
any landmarks as I do when I'm driving.
Paddling along, we decide to go left which means kayaking
under a low, narrow bridge with lots of rocks jutting out of the water. My sister insists that I will be able to
navigate the shallows. I'm worried. What if I scrape the rocks? What if I damage the rudder? What if I lose the paddles? And worse, what if I hit the embankment and
make a total ass out of myself? None of
these things happens, and I make it through with little trouble.
We start exploring the lake, easily losing our sense of
direction as we go around islands and pass different campgrounds and the public
beach where we used to go as kids.
Pretty soon we are out in more open water, in and out of inlets and
coves, and getting ourselves completely and blissfully lost.
Lunch time rolls around, and everything has been carefully
packed in the watertight holds in the kayaks.
We pull up to an island that turns out to be part of the campground, and
we secure a picnic table that's in an uninhabited site. Sandwiches come out, snacks are passed
around, and everything is going well.
Until…
The duck arrives.
Oh, it's a cute little son-of-a-gun, but it is very
bold.
It runs right at our picnic table
with malintent (yeah, I know it's slang; sue me).
We shoo it away and it disappears into the
woods for a second or two before returning, bolder and faster than before.
This happens two more times, then it returns
with its pals.
Honest to goodness, we
are being threatened by a duck and its homies.
We are being chased out by a gang of feathered waterfowl.
We finish eating, clean up all of our scraps
and trash, and I successfully attempt to get back in the kayak without dumping
myself into the lake.
My brother-in-law goes ahead of us toward the dam while my
sister and I have kayak races to see who can get going faster. I'm still having some trouble with this whole
rudder thing, occasionally spacing out and turning the wrong way so that I come
dangerously close to smashing into her as if we are on the bumper cars at
Canobie Lake Park. My arms need a rest,
and I am too tired to join the dam adventure (not the damn adventure), so I
watch from afar.
When we all reconvene, I am rested and ready to continue
around the lake, which is rather large for a novice kayaker. This is when there is some debate about the
navigational prowess of each one of us, and there is some trepidation about our
ability to do anything more than paddle around in circles like the Flying Dutchman. I insist that the rock face, which I can see
off in the distance, should be to my left.
No one actually believes this because I usually cannot find my way out
of a paper bag with a map and head lamp.
I'm insistent that this is true, though, and soon we hear the voices of
beach-goers. We are still up to more
kayaking, but at least now we know where we are.
We are remarkably sociable for people who would rather be
alone and not have humanity bother us.
We are what many outsiders label "Flypaper for Freaks." If there's an odd or disturbed person in a
crowd, that person will single us out and hone in on us with SCUD missile
accuracy and velocity. These episodes
often leave us whining, "Why me?
Why is it always
me?"
On the flipside, my sister and I will talk to anybody and
everybody: cashiers, passers-by, drivers at red lights, foreigners. Heck, I'll bet we've even been caught talking
to roadkill, so we should probably not wonder so much why weirdos gravitate
toward us; we truly do bring it on ourselves.
True to our inner nature, we wave to and talk to everyone we pass --
campers, fishermen, canoeists, kayakers, boaters (who show up tentatively and
quietly, leaving little to no wakes).
Who knows? Maybe it is we who are
the freaks and the rest of humanity is the flypaper.
Before we head in for the day, nearly four hours after we
started, we cruise around the back side of the lake, scaring turtles off logs,
sending a family of ducklings into the reeds, watching fish jump right up out
of the water only to splash down again right near us. When we get back to the canoe and kayak
launch, someone is attempting to put a boat into the water. I'm not entirely certain that this is the
boat launch. As a matter of fact, I'm
pretty certain it's not. We must wait
and wait and wait as the two people attempt to put the small motor boat
in. Mercifully two other kayakers help
the men get the boat into the very shallow, very rocky water.
While we wait for this scene to wrap up, we notice the loon,
probably the one we heard screaming earlier before we unloaded the trailer,
paddling near us in the water.
It lets
my brother-in-law get within about six feet, and it never makes a sound nor
shows any distress.
Lazily it moves into
the reeds of a small tuft of island and positions itself on the edge of the
dirt, watching us as if it couldn't care any less that we have invaded its
space.
This loon keeps us circling the
area for the entire time Frick and Frack attempt to launch their Gilligan's
Island special.
Finally, it's our turn at the shore. My sister and her husband leave me at the
edge of the water to guard the remaining kayaks when they lug one to the
parking lot and prep the trailer for reloading.
The young man who stays with the floating motor boat begins a
conversation with me while a lit cigarette hangs from his mouth. He is a former soldier, or so he says, who
has served in Iraq and Afghanistan. He
is remarkably thin, almost frail, and I'm thinking that even with his military
service vs. my limited judo experience, I could probably take him and have him
face first in the shallows of the lake before his trusty companion returns to
the boat from the upper lot. He tells me
all about his life in New Jersey and how he never wants to go back to New
Jersey (and who could blame him because lord knows I don't ever want to go back
there, either) and how he is divorced and how hard it was to put the boat in
the water (yes, we watched you attempt it for nearly thirty minutes) and on and
on. Before we lift the last of the
kayaks toward the short trail, I know more about this young man than I do about
most of my own relatives, and I'm ashamed to admit it but I will, I swear I
hear banjos playing the theme song from Deliverance
while I wait alone with him.
Once we are all repacked and ready to go, we hit the road
and head back toward Lowes, our accidental starting point. On the way, we pull into a gas station
mini-mart so my brother-in-law can grab something to drink and so that my
sister and I can use the bathroom. It
dawns on us that we have not peed since well before 9:30, five hours earlier,
and we're not sure we can wait the short trek back to the store. We're fine, really, well, almost really.
Inside the ladies' room, we erupt into a fit of giggles and
suddenly realize we're going to wet our pants if we don't stop laughing and do
what we're here to do. We are still
laughing as we emerge from the side of the building, probably attracting stares
from people driving down the road with their windows open, but we're used to
it. That's how it is when we spend too
much time together; everything is damn funny and we start acting like we're
kids again. Honestly, I don't know how
the rest of the relatives, especially relatives new to our family, can possibly
tolerate our nonsense.
In the parking lot of Lowes we exchange our fake air kisses
and do the semi-hug thing our family does.
Sometimes we attempt to have serious goodbyes, but then we dissolve into
our usual Gene Wilder-like "Good luck, Bart" repertoire.
In our family, no good-bye is too cheesy.
Ever.
Besides, this isn't really goodbye. My sister and I will be meeting up with our
two brothers and their families in Pennsylvania in a couple of weeks. The trip is going to be fun, it's going to
mean a lot of highway potty stops if we laugh too hard, and it's going to
involve a cooler full of processed cheese, ice waters, and deli meat
sandwiches.
Best of all, though, it's a trip that will generate a
shitload of twisted fodder for the blog.
Another brilliant idea! So … Let
the freaks out -- the fly paper is taking a road trip; kayaks optional … this
time.
