On the Waterfront

I chickened out on my first trip to the water.

The stink of polyvinyl hung heavy in the minivan, thanks to the inflatable kayak crammed into it, with the vessel’s nose squeezed between the two front bucket seats and blocking much of my view. I had bought the blow-up kayak on sale after learning that the much-anticipated lake to the north would be opening that week. I inflated the thing in my living room to test that it didn’t have a leak. After being assured it did not, I dragged it through the house, awkwardly navigating it through two doors and into the garage and shoving it into the hatchback end of the van. I mean, it was already inflated. I didn’t see the point of deflating it only to re-inflate it three minutes later at the lake.

I opted for the inflatable raft over a hard-shell kayak because 1.) It was cheaper; 2.) I didn’t know how to strap a kayak to the roof of the van; and 3.) I wanted to test the water, so to speak, to see if I’d actually use it on a regular basis before committing a chunk of the garage to a 10 foot span of plastic. This way, if I never went kayaking again, I could stuff the deflated thing back in its 3’x2’ box and be done with it.

But here I was, slowly circling the parking lot, chagrined at the sight of others’ fancy kayak trailers and rooftop racks, hoping they couldn’t see the glorified pool float squeezed inside my vehicle. They’d know soon enough when I pulled it out, circus clown style. 

Then there was the question of where and how to actually get it in the lake, and how to get myself into it without flipping over into the water. And was I dressed properly? What does one wear to kayak on a warm summer’s day? A wetsuit with aqua shoes seemed too aggressive for a casual outing in what was essentially a pond. A bathing suit felt too immodest. I settled on capri cargo khakis with a T-shirt and flip-flops. Everyone else who’d come out to paddle the new water was already in, and I couldn’t tell what they were wearing.

The new lake opened in June, some 10 years after it was first proposed. All in all, I would think a decade from concept to paddling a canoe is a pretty quick turnaround, given that nature tends to take at least a few thousand years. Still, it felt like an eternity.

That may be because I moved into the neighborhood nearly a dozen years ago on the promise that the developer would be building a neighborhood pool. 

“Next summer, it’ll be open,” the real estate agent had assured, more than once. It was fall, and the coming winter promised to be brutal. I’d spent that summer juggling work, the kids’ activities and helping remodel my current home’s basement. The prospect of spending the next summer lounging by the pool, catching up on my reading while the kids splashed their way to an early bedtime was a seduction I could not resist.

But unbeknownst to me, my plunge into the next step beyond starter home corresponded with the largest housing market collapse in U.S. history. No pool _ not even a hint of pool construction _ was forthcoming the next summer. There also seemed to be no construction of new homes. Not only did the dozen or so of us who’d bought homes in the fledgling neighborhood not have a pool, we had no new neighbors. For years to come.

Turns out, the developer likely knew _ even by the time we were being sold a bill of goods _ that no pool was set for construction for the next summer. By the summer after that, the developer was well aware there would be no pool at all, but the few neighbors we acquired said agents desperate for a sale had peddled the lie to them that the pool was on the books. There was more than a little anger and angst over this once the con was up. There was talk of a lawsuit and questions about what had been done with years of inflated neighborhood association dues that were supposed to be going into a pool fund. But then came word of the lake, and we all had something bigger and potentially better to distract us.

And now, here I was, hanging in my van and fretting over how to get in the water.

With all this pent-up snobbery over eastern Nebraska’s lack of big water, you’d think I would have no problem getting onto a lake I initially  dubbed “The Duck Pond.” But after circling the lot about three times, I pulled out and went back home.

I left under the guise of needing to get a towel or two to dry off from the soaking I would inevitably get. At least, that’s what I told myself. Plus, it was too crowded at high noon on a Sunday. I loitered at home most of the afternoon.

By the time I worked up the courage to head back, there was still about three hours of daylight left, and the crowd had thinned a bit. I took a deep breath, hauled the inflatable raft out of the van and dragged it to the boat launch. I eased in, used the paddle to push off, and just like that, I was kayaking. I looked around. No one was staring. No one was pointing and laughing at my pool-float of a kayak. No one seemed to be paying attention to my venture at all.

I paddled to the center of the shallow lake, where the crowns of cottonwoods and willows that had lined the original, now-dammed creek rose up from the water’s surface. I’d stop every now and then to take photos with my phone, but otherwise paddled straight through to the far side of the lake until my arms ached _ apparently forgetting that I’d have to paddle back just as far. By the time I returned to the boat launch, my arms and back were as weak and useless as jelly. But I felt alive and accomplished, having made my first solo kayaking trip. Why had I spent even a second worrying that I might look foolish getting into the water?

Then came time to get out of the water.

I slid the inflatable kayak front first up the ramp until the vinyl bottom under me gripped the concrete, coming to a hard stop. Easy-peasy, I thought. I’ll just swing my legs over the side and stand up. It appears I had left some things out of my calculation. Like the fact that I was almost 50. And that I hadn’t attempted a stand-from-a-bottom-on-the-ground move in probably 30 years. And gravity.

I willed myself to stand. I went nowhere. I put a hand under me while holding the paddle in front of me to leverage myself up. I made it about three inches before falling back into the rubber kayak. I tossed the paddle to the bank and put both hands under me to try to push myself up. Still a no-go. After a few pathetic minutes, I had decided my only option was to sit in the thing for several hours until every living soul had left, then roll myself out of the kayak, into the water and crawl my way up the ramp _ when I heard a voice say, “Here; let me give you a hand.”

It was my next-door neighbor, who’s probably about 20 years younger and 30 pounds lighter than me and can definitely stand up from a seated position in a floating kayak. I know this because he had just gotten out of a kayak on the other side of the ramp.

I was past grappling with defeat and awkwardness. I just took the hand he had mercifully reached out, and _ voila! _ I was on my feet. Ten minutes earlier I had felt as outdoorsy and capable as Bear Grylls. Now, I felt like the poster geezer for Life Alert.

Was I embarrassed? You bet. Did it kill me? It did not. Again; no one seemed to care that the old lady in the pool-float kayak needed a hand to get out of it. And I’ve since made some adjustments to avoid a repeat _ like docking on the ramp stern-first to get further on solid ground and more leverage. Wearing shorts, instead of capris, that won’t drag in the water as I get out. And doing some squats every once in a while to build at least a modicum of strength.

I’ve been in the water about a half-dozen times now, still using the inflatable canoe. It’s become one of my favorite pastimes. I’ll likely graduate to a real kayak this year, and install a roof rack to carry it.

I’m glad I didn’t let the fear of looking foolish keep me from trying something new. I’m going to try to remember that when I get on a bike for the first time in a couple of decades later this summer.