There are two kayaks sitting in plastic in my garage. Little do they know, soon their insulated, calm world is going to be ripped from them and they are going to be tossed into a freezing cold body of water. It may take them a moment or so to adjust, but have no fear: they will learn to love the job they were made for.
You see, my mother and I are not foolish, and thus waited to use them until we could use them safely. Tonight was the final night of our kayaking course, and now we are informed and certified. I DID A WET EXIT FROM MY KAYAK IN THE MIDDLE OF THE RIVER*. I have almost never been so proud of myself as I am right now. (There was that time I did the Grouse Grind. That was also very impressive of me.)
With that in mind, I have composed an ode to kayaking. Because I'm like that.
An Ode To Kayak
O kayak --
You challenge to mind and body
upper-arm-strength tester,
fear-of-sinking confronter;
stand faithfully beneath me,
patient as I tumble in
(and tumble out) -
bright red beacon of buoyancy.
O kayak --
o tow rope, o bilge pump,
o government-sanctioned whistle,
together we learn to scull,
to pry,
to draw.
Sun sets on water as I confidently guide you
forwards,
backwards,
and in circles.
O kayak --
you protect me from waves wrought
by drunk teenagers in a motorboat,
but not from the plague of mosquitoes
carried on the cool river breeze.
(I forgive you this trespass,
as you forgave when I accidentally ran you aground).
O kayak --
together we cut a silent path
through my doubts and lack of muscle tone
(but only in calm water, of course).
*(Wet exit = flip over kayak so you are upside down in the river, kick self out of kayak, emerge from river, turn kayak over, climb back in. I KNOW.)
