By Bruce Davidson
The English language has some pretty amusing names for groups of animals or birds, such as a murder of crows, a congress of baboons, a sleuth of bears or a surfeit of skunks. Having participated in White Squall’s Franklin Challenge in June, with eighty odd paddlers champing at the bit on the start line, I would like to submit a frenzy of kayaks as a candidate expression for such an animated grouping. Notwithstanding the organizers repeated assurances that this is not a race, just try convincing a bunch of testosterone charged youths that lazing down the river on a sunny afternoon is the way to go. No chance.
My first opportunity to look like a clown came early in the proceedings when I found myself on the wrong side of the flotilla heading like gangbusters into the open Bay through the narrow channel at the Snug Lighthouse. For reasons that I will simply attribute to a senior moment, I had to get to the White Squall safety boat through the onrushing mass of kayaks, as I imagined, in a huge hurry. Why in a hurry? I have no idea—it just seemed imperative in the heat of the moment with everybody flailing away trying to catch their neighbour. Fortunately, I have driven in roundabouts in both London and Paris, and thus have some familiarity with vehicular anticipation, intimidation and aggressive intrusion tactics. I expect the lateral arabesque manoeuver that I deftly executed caught some of the young ‘uns by surprise, but hey, whatever it takes.
Things settled down somewhat thereafter to the extent that I could actually spare the time to steal a glance at my surroundings—what a luxury. Alas, the moment was fleeting, as any slacking inevitably meant that that damn blue sea- going craft that I had fought so hard to keep up with was rapidly slipping away. Worse still, the conversationalists and the party animals actually had the temerity to steal my hard wrung position in the pack. What ignominy!
The truly humorous moment of the day for me came after an hour or so into the fray when a couple of guys in a Nigel Dennis Explorer, the Ferrari of the kayak world, came alongside my craft and said as politely as they could manage “What’s that, a chopper?” Now up until that moment, I had imagined myself as a pretty cool dude, notwithstanding my septuagenarian status, perched atop my bright red sit-on-top Wilderness Tarpon. Think Dennis Hopper and Jack Nicholson in Easy Rider and you have a fair idea of my mental comport. Now at one fell swoop I had been unmasked as a novice interloper in a craft straight out of Wally World in their eyes. I did manage to muster a laugh as I sat sprawled out like some kind of beached whale…giving an unconvincing explanation that it was all about comfort.
Corbman Point is the most northerly tip of Franklin Island and a designated check in location. As we had a fairly brisk north wind that day, the half mile paddle into the teeth of it after a couple of hours already under the belt was bracing to say the least. Taking dead aim at the big white war canoe, White Squall’s 10 person Blackfly II, already ashore in the distance I summoned the last vestiges of strength and dug in to cross the choppy waters. Gratefully I hauled my sorry backside out of my watery prison in anticipation of cookies and a surreptitious beer carefully concealed in an insulated holder. You can imagine with what mixture of horror and amazement I observed the kayak behind me (yes, there were a few) calling out its numbers and continuing on. No pee break, no cookies, no refreshments, nothing but back to business. Who were these animals? Had I mistakenly signed up for the Carling Company of Masochistic Adventurers instead of the Franklin Challenge?
This disturbing new development completely destroyed my enjoyment of lunch as I worriedly observed several others pull the same stunt and continue on. Was this some kind of evil conspiracy to take down the would-be pretender from Wally World? Was everybody hiding around the corner ready to yell SURPRISE! when I gullibly bought into their trickery? Not able to afford taking the chance, I wolfed down my peanut butter and banana sandwich, gulped down the last of my beer, grabbed a couple of cookies from the cheerful greeter and staggered back crablike to subject myself to the next episode of self-flagellation.
While the return leg was supposedly downwind, I had many years of golf under my belt and was very familiar with the peculiarity of that sport where it is entirely possible, indeed likely, that you can play all 18 holes into the wind and yet end up back at the clubhouse. Fortunately that was not the case on this particular day as I finally allowed Mother Nature to do the heavy lifting as I sauntered on home.
Kudos to White Squall for raising around $12,000 in support of the Franklin Island cleanup efforts which they organize several times each summer. And a special thanks to Emily Beirens for accommodating my idiosyncrasies. I expect to be on hand same time next year for another bout with the frenzy of kayakers, only this time with Aleve.
Download this story and the entire WCA Summer Newsletter July 2018 in PDF format (1.5MB).