Ever since going kayaking
with my sister and brother-in-law last summer, I have been salivating over a
kayak of my own. I do research and
comparisons, I search websites and visit stores, I plan and prep my car for
this wonderful adventure. Freedom! To the open waterways … and beyond!
Today I’m ready. I have my credit card in hand (with a nearly
zero balance, so it’s good to go), my research all printed out, and I’m going
in for the semi-kill. I have even
decided that I can buy the kayak at one place and all the other stuff somewhere
else. Today I’m going to the experts so
they can teach me how to tie that sucker down and I can make some final
decisions about the water craft.
My car doesn’t have a roof
rack, so I have two options for carting the kayak around: Number one -- I can
fit a seven-to-eight foot kayak in my car with all the seats down (except the
driver’s), and I can tie the hatch down for whatever remainder there is that
won’t close. I even have a red kerchief
ready for the tail end. Number two – I can
use foam buffers on the roof, tie the sides of the kayak through the back
windows of my car, and secure the front and back to the bumpers.
If either of these options
proves successful, I’m bringing that baby home today. Now.
Ten minutes ago. A month
ago. It cannot be soon enough.
Of course, if all else
fails, my final options are to have the dealer install a roof rack or get one
of the temporary roof racks that strap to the car. These, though, are expensive and require
intervention, and I’m damned ready to pull off this mission without any back-up
assistance whatsoever (except for the initial tie down instructions). I even map out a route home from the Nashua
store that requires no highway driving, just in case this plan goes smoothly.
Once I have the computer
work done of price checking all the equipment I need at each and every sporting
goods store I can locate within a thirty-mile radius, I saunter out to my
car. All (but one) seats are down. I re-measure the interior. Yessir, a kayak will surely fit in here with
just a little bit sticking out the back.
I examine the hatch carefully, trying to decide if my bungee cords will
work or if I should go buy rope, too.
I suppose the pile of
steaming animal shit from the neighbor’s dog that is now smattered on the
ground in front of my car is an omen. I
check the car all over and discover that although there is a tie down where the
hatch actually closes, there is no place to run through a rope or bungee cord on
the hatch itself. No nook, no cranny, no
hole, no pass-through. Nothing.
Sonofabitch.
Okay, so the idea of
lifting a forty-plus pound kayak into the car is just too easy. I’m going to have to go big and head for the
roof with the foam. I can do this. If I scratch the car, oh well, it’s old and
paid for, so what the hell. Can’t be any
worse than scraping off spring worm doodoo.
Now, where to tie the ropes front and back? Let’s just look at the …
Holy crap.
My damn car doesn’t have
bumpers. Seriously, there are no
frigging bumpers on my car. There is a
plastic flap that covers the back and nothing in the front but molded on
whatever it is – probably fiberglass.
There is no place to tie, secure, loop, bungee, or anything.
I know, I know! There must be hooks underneath. Everyone needs to secure things to their
cars, right? So, I look. I crawl on the ground, I turn belly-up, I
look and look again and again and again in complete and utter disbelief.
No matter what else
happens, I suddenly realize this sad truth:
No kayak will be coming home with
me today.
That’s okay. There’s still the roof rack! I call the dealer and explain that I want a
roof rack installed on my car so I can haul around a kayak. I’ve already priced it out on their
website. I know what I’m doing
here. The droll service man, who replaced
my best and longtime bud Steve the Service Tech, looks up my car information
and informs me that it is impossible to put a roof rack on my particular car,
whether it be installed or temporary, due to the fancy-schmancy decorative shit
along the top of my R/T edition.
I hang up dejectedly and
start calling the experts at the stores.
What are my options for securing
the kayak? Can I just tie it through the
windows? Help me, Obi-Wan Kayaki.
One of these brilliant
people informs me that I should have hitches of some kind installed in the
front and back if they cannot put roof racks on top. So, I call the dealer back, and this time the
service manager tells me it cannot be done, and he basically tells me that my
car is good for nothing, to which I agree, and then I get all pissy on
him. “Don’t blame us for selling you the
car,” he says.
FUUUUUUUUUCK YOUUUUUUUUUU, asshole.
And just like that, my
kayak dreams go kaflooey. If I want a
kayak, I need a new car.
I start toying with an
idea I rejected originally, though: Modular kayaks. These kayaks come apart for easy
transportation and storage. The only
downside is that they leak a little bit; not a lot, but my butt will get wet
and I’ll have to sit on top instead of inside a cockpit. I’m not sure I’m coordinated enough to sit
higher. I’m not a very balanced person,
physically nor mentally.
I’ve researched modular
kayaks enough to know that buying this kind of kayak is not a sure deal at
all. I might be too stupid to put it
together and just sink immediately. I
watch videos of real kayak experts testing the things out, the pros and cons,
and I see the amount of water that floats around beneath the feet of the
paddlers. Even my youngest son thinks
modular kayaks would be great because then he can get one, as well. Easy for him to say that. His car has a big trunk – and goddamn
bumpers.
I call around. The Nashua sporting goods store just sold
their last modular kayak, and the shipping and handling to get one delivered to
the store is expensive. I try a few
other stores. I price the whole venture
out. I’m just about out of my mind when
I realize that if the kayak sucks, or if I suck at kayaking, I can do one
simple thing.
I can return it. Taaah-daaaah! I. Can. Return. It.
I check prices
online. I compare S&H prices. I weigh whether or not saving the tax fee is
worth the hassle of going to New Hampshire to pick up the boxes that may nor
may not fit into my car unless unpacked.
I pretend I’m really going to order one.
I place the item in my cyber cart.
I go through the motions of placing the order so I can see what the fees
are. Oh look, a sale! I get $15 back in shipping and handling. Savings galore! I get to the tax vs. no tax battle and decide
that my time and effort are worth the $25 I’m spending.
Before I realize what is
happening, I hit SUBMIT ORDER. Oh, why not?
I am only going to live once, and maybe, just maybe, I’ll like the
kayak.
Later, after I’ve returned
to my senses, I go out and buy myself a life vest and kayak paddles at a nearby
tax-free store. The sales people don’t
know shit about kayaking, which is why my friend Jess comes along. She suits me up in no time. The only thing I still need is a waterproof
dry bag for gear and extra stuff, but I’ll have to go to a better store for
that.
Good gawd, I
think as reality sets in, I’ve bought
myself a kayak and it will fit in my damn, useless car with no help from sales
clerks or car dealer service personnel.
The only regret I have at
this point is that I waited so long to pull the trigger. I’ve already lost a week of my summer break
that I could’ve been out tooling around a lake or pond.
