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.