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I'm in the drink for love
Aug. 11th, 2005 12:21 amFor K.'s birthday today, I went kayaking and swimming in Lake George. One of those was intentional.
Lake George, in concept, is stunning and serene, cupped in green mountains with deep blue water beneath and pale blue sky above. The water itself was anything but serene: two-foot swells running in every direction at once, thanks to brisk winds and powerboats. Our kayaks wobbled and slapped the water as we headed south, toward a string of islands about a mile and a half away, and we wore out quickly.
The first island was a tiny heap of boulders, gripped by thick tree roots, no more than fifty feet long. We rested for a while in the shade of the trees, waves bonking us against the rocks, then set off for a larger island to the southeast, since I wanted to reach one we could actually walk around on. When we got there, dozens of chickadees were hopping and singing in the pines that overhung the shore—and I use the term "shore" advisedly, as the island plunges sharply into the lake at a 60° angle on all sides. I managed to find us a landing, risking a broken ankle on the slippery boulders, and again on the scramble upslope to the island's crest, but once we were there K. and I found we had an entire island to ourselves. Apart from a single Pepperidge Farms Sesame Thins wrapper, it was as if we were the first humans to set foot there. Birds sang, daddy longlegs chased each other through the dry needles, a chipmunk scurried about on important chipmunk business. A pine tree cathedral, indeed, fifty feet up from the water.
I managed to capsize, getting back in the kayak; apparently, I was more tired than I'd realized. But I righted myself, and tipped much of the water out, and climbed back in, dripping wet but no worse for wear.
The next time I capsized, half a mile from the nearest land, was more of an issue. I do not know how to re-enter a kayak with nothing but fathoms of water beneath my heels—which is not to say I didn't try, heaving myself onto the gunwales and scootching around inch by inch until the inevitable loss of balance. I actually considered asking K. to call someone who might be able to Google "getting back into a kayak", then remembered she had no cell phone. I did what I knew to do: wriggle out of my jeans, lie on my back, and kick my way back to the island, towing the kayak behind me. Unfortunately, the two-foot waves opposed me, sapping strength from my legs and slapping me about and shooting water up my nose, and the island never seemed to get any closer. After fifteen minutes, when my legs started shaking, I began to seriously wonder what I was going to do.
The answer came in the form of a deus ex machina named Tom, who putted up alongside me in his little yacht and offered maritime assistance. He hauled my kayak up onto the deck with his alarmingly muscular shoulders, and I flopped up after it like a beached fish. Let's all remember, now, that I was still in my underwear at this point. Fortunately, Tom's wife and daughter did not seem unduly alarmed, and after I squeezed into my soaked jeans and slunk back into the kayak we made it to the dock without incident.
(For those who like to follow along at home, here is a map. We started just north of the bridge at the top, and set off for the islands you can see at the bottom. There is one biggish island that looks like a boomerang, and to the east of that there is a small wooded island, and to the east of that there is a little blurry spot in the water that was our first destination. The second island is the pickle-looking thing to the southeast, in the low-res portion of the map. I capsized half a mile north-northwest of it.)
The rest of K.'s birthday celebration was quite pleasant: Southern fried catfish and cornbread at Hattie's, birthday presents and strawberry pie at home. (The presents included season 2 of Home Movies and "CDs she'd been meaning to check out but hadn't yet," including an older Wilco, the White Stripes debut, Brighteyes, and Tenacious D.) She leaves for five days in California tomorrow, so I'm glad we had a full day together, near-drownings aside.
Lake George, in concept, is stunning and serene, cupped in green mountains with deep blue water beneath and pale blue sky above. The water itself was anything but serene: two-foot swells running in every direction at once, thanks to brisk winds and powerboats. Our kayaks wobbled and slapped the water as we headed south, toward a string of islands about a mile and a half away, and we wore out quickly.
The first island was a tiny heap of boulders, gripped by thick tree roots, no more than fifty feet long. We rested for a while in the shade of the trees, waves bonking us against the rocks, then set off for a larger island to the southeast, since I wanted to reach one we could actually walk around on. When we got there, dozens of chickadees were hopping and singing in the pines that overhung the shore—and I use the term "shore" advisedly, as the island plunges sharply into the lake at a 60° angle on all sides. I managed to find us a landing, risking a broken ankle on the slippery boulders, and again on the scramble upslope to the island's crest, but once we were there K. and I found we had an entire island to ourselves. Apart from a single Pepperidge Farms Sesame Thins wrapper, it was as if we were the first humans to set foot there. Birds sang, daddy longlegs chased each other through the dry needles, a chipmunk scurried about on important chipmunk business. A pine tree cathedral, indeed, fifty feet up from the water.
I managed to capsize, getting back in the kayak; apparently, I was more tired than I'd realized. But I righted myself, and tipped much of the water out, and climbed back in, dripping wet but no worse for wear.
The next time I capsized, half a mile from the nearest land, was more of an issue. I do not know how to re-enter a kayak with nothing but fathoms of water beneath my heels—which is not to say I didn't try, heaving myself onto the gunwales and scootching around inch by inch until the inevitable loss of balance. I actually considered asking K. to call someone who might be able to Google "getting back into a kayak", then remembered she had no cell phone. I did what I knew to do: wriggle out of my jeans, lie on my back, and kick my way back to the island, towing the kayak behind me. Unfortunately, the two-foot waves opposed me, sapping strength from my legs and slapping me about and shooting water up my nose, and the island never seemed to get any closer. After fifteen minutes, when my legs started shaking, I began to seriously wonder what I was going to do.
The answer came in the form of a deus ex machina named Tom, who putted up alongside me in his little yacht and offered maritime assistance. He hauled my kayak up onto the deck with his alarmingly muscular shoulders, and I flopped up after it like a beached fish. Let's all remember, now, that I was still in my underwear at this point. Fortunately, Tom's wife and daughter did not seem unduly alarmed, and after I squeezed into my soaked jeans and slunk back into the kayak we made it to the dock without incident.
(For those who like to follow along at home, here is a map. We started just north of the bridge at the top, and set off for the islands you can see at the bottom. There is one biggish island that looks like a boomerang, and to the east of that there is a small wooded island, and to the east of that there is a little blurry spot in the water that was our first destination. The second island is the pickle-looking thing to the southeast, in the low-res portion of the map. I capsized half a mile north-northwest of it.)
The rest of K.'s birthday celebration was quite pleasant: Southern fried catfish and cornbread at Hattie's, birthday presents and strawberry pie at home. (The presents included season 2 of Home Movies and "CDs she'd been meaning to check out but hadn't yet," including an older Wilco, the White Stripes debut, Brighteyes, and Tenacious D.) She leaves for five days in California tomorrow, so I'm glad we had a full day together, near-drownings aside.
