the swim

This is a little essay that I wrote for the Canoecopia show guide.  Thought it fit nicely here.

34 degrees.

It trickled into my boots, bled through my wool pants, then seeped through the other layers until the full impact spread over my legs. I was standing waist deep in water, my canoe half-full, teetering over a small, mostly-submerged log.

It’s an uncommon sensation. One second you’re admiring the honking nuthatch picking its way over a shagbark. The next second you are aware of only one thing, the nuthatch a distant memory.

There are two kinds of canoeists: ones that paddle a lot and sometimes swim, and those who paddle little and don’t. Those of us who are passionate about canoeing are the most likely to achieve unanticipated moisture. For me it happens rarely, maybe once a decade on a calm but twisty stream; more often in big whitewater. It’s usually an unexpected branch, log, wave or rock that becomes the catalyst for change.

Before...

This was my first flatwater swim since the 1994, so I was due for a baptism. It was March, the day after Canoecopia. A few of us went for the traditional day-after little paddle on Badfish Creek, known for its swift current, downfall and little surprises along the way.

We were prepared and dressed for the weather, and for any out-of-boat experiences. The big blue NRS waterproof duffel is the perfect bailout bag (thanks, Farley). There’s a set of dry everything, one-size-fits-huge. I always carry it for others. The people who swim, not me.

Yet there I was. The blue duffel floated high, still tethered to my canoe, bobbing lazily in the eddy behind the tree that produced my nemesis. We were close to the takeout, I was wearing wool, so I emptied my Argosy, squeegied my legs, emptied my boots, wrung out my socks and got back in. I paddled a little more quickly than normal, but since my core was dry I produced enough heat to say comfortable enough.

...and after.

Back at the car, I cracked open the duffel and found the fleece pants and sweater I keep in there. Oversized, brown and fuzzy, they’re warm and something of a bold fashion statement. I quickly stripped and replaced the lower clothing and threw the brown sweater over my other clothing. Ugly socks and dorky shoes and I was ready for the unfashion show. I looked like a cross between Fozzie Bear and a mudslide, but I was warm, safe and slightly humbled.

It was a good swim.

The opportunity for humility is brought to us in many ways and forms. It happens daily…we’re forced to face our frailties and foibles, and we face a daily choice; embrace the opportunity, or blame the Universe for annoying us, buzzing around our heads like a persistent black fly.

I’m not sure a lot of people understand humility. Our culture tends to think of humility as thinking you suck when you’re really awesome, whereas arrogance is thinking you’re awesome when you suck. The truth is that sometimes we’re awesome and sometimes we suck. Most of the time we paddle along, competent and in control, but periodically we take a little swim. Those little swims are just as important as the uneventful passages. They give the uneventful passages a lot more meaning.

Because life is not about staying dry.

Respectfully submitted,

Canoelover