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THE RIVER WILD LET'S GO CANOEING
Riding the waves - there are so many choices these days! Boogie Boards, River Rides, Riverwalks, White Rapids Rafting, Gondolas, Kayaks - but it's hard to beat an adventure in a canoe! The air was heavy and stagnant. The three dead fish that lay roasting on the river bank didn't help matters. For a moment, I considered tossing up my unhealthy breakfast of Blueberry Poptarts and hazelnut flavored coffee, but the effort would have been too much for this non-morning ancient mariner.
My spirit was brightened by the fleet of red canoes that lay bobbing in the distance. The supply was plentiful, and unless the visiting troop of Boy Scouts had reserved the lot, luck was on my side. I could visualize myself lodged into the manhole, a strong oar propelling through the wicked calmness of the blue lake under the new sunrise. I'd waited all week for this adventure. I meandered up to the tiny window, feeling like I should be placing an order for a cheeseburger rather than making arrangements to rent a canoe. A tiny lady was out and about, walking her equally tiny ugly dog that had some tiny brown choppers - which he purposely displayed to my curious glance. I tensed as the lady paused on the wobbly wooden bridge adjacent to where I stood waiting for the 'canoe attendant'. The tiny dog hoisted one leg and I dare say that if I had not side-stepped a second earlier, I would have been the victim of walk by 'shooting'.
The lady scolded Scooter, then jerked hard on the leash for a woman her size. Scooter growled, then relented and the two continued along the way, onward and outward, entering the small stretch of beach by the pier. God only knew the damage that Scooter would inflict on the pristine beach. A sudden whiff of ugliness permeated the air, temporarily dousing the stench of the dead fish. "Need a canoe?" the attendant questioned, running one doubled fist over his nose, perhaps trying to erase the potent fumes.
I narrowed my eyes and glimpsed the name "Irish" on the name tag of the man's crinkled blue-stripped shirt. Irish Spring he was not! Irish smelled like he'd been fondling the minnows all night; the dead-as-a-doornail ones. I silently cursed myself for giving up my pipe for Lent. That apple-scented tobacco would have worked well in sealing out the ferocity of the air. "Yes, please. I'll need her all day, too," I eased out in one solid breath, then turned slightly to take in some fresh air. Of course, those three lingering fish prohibited total freshness.
Irish scratched the back of his neck, which was probably as sunburnt as his face looked. My brows knitted when he informed, "Sorry, can't do. Got a troop of Boy Scouts in the area for the day and the canoes are all taken." A killing mood hit me. I forced a calm, then asked for reassurance, "Are you positive? Not even one canoe?" "Well," Irish lumbered out, his tone slow as he reached up to re-attack his neck with his nails again. "Yes?" "Well, I've got one that's a bit battered," he finally oozed out. "Got a tiny hole in the middle." "I'll take it," I whipped out, then went for my wallet. "How much for all day?" "Wait, Mister," Irish instructed, holding up his hand to halt my efforts. His movements unlocked the ungodly scent that lay rotting within his armpits. It took everything that I had to remain rooted to the spot. Irish continued, "I can't just let you loose on the lake in a sieve. And with the Troop here today...well, what if you got into trouble? Could pose a big problem. I don't want no canoe wrecks on my watch!"
My watch? Everyone seemed intense on using the phase these days - as if pontificating their hired position. Swiftly, I told Irish, "Nonsense. That's the worse that could happen - and it would be good hands-on practice even if it did. Right?" An hour later I was oaring through the calm waters - Irish, those three stinking fish, and Scooter miles behind me now. I was in Aqua Heaven! Even the canoe was cooperating. I'd purchased a couple of packs of Doublemint from Irish before heading out and one stick had plugged the hole nicely. The breeze bouncing off of the blue lake was cool and I'd dressed wisely in jeans, a long-sleeved cotton shirt and a wool vest. My head supported a fishing hat that was tattooed with lures - my lucky hat. My fishing gear rested to one side of the canoe, and I'd placed my ice chest at the front-end for both balance and ease. That 12-pack of Coke should last the day, and the bucket of KFC fried chicken would be mighty tasty come noon. Time swiftly passed as I tread the still waters, keeping close to the banks under the shade. It was a bit cooler than out in the open, but not nearly as adventurous. I was also monitoring the wildlife in the area. The sight of a heron made a smile lift my lips, for he was fishing on the opposite bank. Good sign; fish in the area. A half-mile down the river I came across a fisherman's paradise. The water was clear, with a nest of huge logs clumped together beneath the shade of the trees overlooking the lake. I brought out my fishing gear and my bucket of chicken, and popped open a cold one. Nothing like fishing; the serenity, the solitude - "What?" A muffled noise reached my ears, drifting towards me downstream. My solitude was suddenly violated. Boy Scouts - the Troop. Lucky me! I applied a sinister look onto my face, hoping that my shadow of a beard added merit to my dastardly warning. The Troop continued to sing and they were almost past me. I continued to hold my breath. My God, it was an entire fleet of singing pubescent songbirds. I'd be lucky to catch a gar by the time their passage occurred. When I thought all was safe on the Western Front, one of the Troop leaders commanded the fleet to halt. I embraced my extra crispy wing and it popped as I listened to the Leader's impromptu speech. "Looks like a great area for our maneuvers, Troop!" Swimming 101 ensued shortly and I was in a panic at this point. I was helmed in with no way out. Those righteous do-gooders decked out in khaki cutoffs were holding me prisoner. Several times, I attempted to get their attention, to no avail. Taking all I could stand, I bashed my oar hard on the bottom of the canoe - my misconceived efforts dislodging my sticks of Doublemint, the canoe springing a huge leak!
It went downhill from there. A red-head named Bobby was responsible for saving me - even though I didn't need saving. Marty ended up with my lucky hat, and Herman with my bucket of chicken. It wasn't pretty. Later, at the hospital as I lay thinking about my imperfect day, I pondered my purpose in life. It was at this moment that I realized, "Next time, call ahead - or you may end up dead." Needless to say, my next canoe outing progressed most perfectly! Irish must have been due for his annual bath, for he smelled as fresh as a daisy when I arrived to pick up my reserved canoe. He also shared a bit of local pier gossip. Seems that Scooter had attacked the Boy Scouts on that fitful day, ending up with the Colonel's chicken. The volatile Troop Leader had then went on to reprimand Scooter, but was taken down quite quickly by Scooter's wee master. My face was lit with a smile as I hopped into the beautiful red canoe. I was off to Fisherman's Paradise, to the deep hole where the cluster of fat logs lay, and perhaps a school of catfish! |
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