over the wall and lined the railing between us and the water set the perfect fairy-tale scene. The river was as blue as the sky and was all lit up with the sparkling reflection of diamond-cut sunshine. I couldn’t wait to get in a canoe and paddle along with the ducks and swans.
A cocky young man at the boat rental stall greeted us with a tip of his straw hat. He seemed to think it humorous that the two of us “older” women wanted to rent a canoe and take it out by ourselves. He tried to convince us to wait half an hour until Evan, the boatman, returned with the fancy flatboat that most tourists “our age” preferred to take. Evan was, after all, an excellent punter.
Jill and I exchanged glances, and I knew we were of one mind.
“No thank you,” we both said.
“We’d prefer to take out a canoe on our own,” Jill added.
“All right then. You can have the red one there at the dock.”
We paid with cash, picked up our paddles and life vests, and clambered into the canoe while the young man at the boat stall watched.
Not being particularly experienced at canoeing, Jill and I got in facing each other instead of both facing the same direction.
“That’s not the way you should be seated,” the young man said with a snicker.
“This is the way we seat,” I said.
“Seat?”
“Sit,” I declared, settling in with as much dignity as I could at that point. “This is the way we sit.”
Jill was no help. She was laughing, and that made me want to laugh. But the situation wasn’t as funny as she may have thought because the challenge of swinging my legs around without unbalancing the canoe was more of a risk than I was willing to take.
“Do you want to turn the other way?” I asked Jill quietly.
“No, we can make this work. Come on, I’ll paddle us out of here.”
I am happy to report that we pulled off the procedure as graceful as swans and floated with the current into the center of the shallow river.
But once we moved away from the dock, our challenges came to the forefront. That’s when I put my paddle in the water, and Jill and I couldn’t synchronize our paddling. Every stroke I made seemed to cancel hers.
“Right side,” Jill called out.
I paddled vigorously.
“Your other right side!” she said, laughing. “We’re headed for the tules!”
I never was good at determining my right from my left when in a pinch. With four bold strokes, I managed to ram us right into the tall grasses along the riverbank.
“Let me try to back us up,” Jill said. “Don’t paddle.”
I realized then that the current was more of a problem than we had anticipated. In the deeper water toward the center of the river, the current appeared to gently flow back toward the boathouse. Along the side, where we were now wedged, a different, swirling current was at play.
Jill single-handedly maneuvered us out of the reeds and back into the calmer current, which, unfortunately, carried us right back to the dock at the boathouse before she and I had a chance to regroup and coordinate our paddling efforts.
“Hallo!” the smarty boat-boy greeted us from the launching dock where he had no doubt seen our entire escapade. “Does this mean we can sign you up then for the punting tour?”
“Just ignore him,” Jill said under her breath, as if we were two girls at summer camp and the older boys from the neighboring camp had invaded our lake.
I thought she was hilarious to say we should ignore him, but I couldn’t do it. I had to smart off. After all, he was wearing a straw hat and a bow tie like a missing member of a barber-shop quartet. He was begging for sassy comments from the tourists.
“We’re not sissies in this scenario.”
“That’s right. We are managing just fine, thank you,” Jill added politely.
“Yeah. Save your punting tickets for some other old ladies.”
“Kathy!” Jill flipped a sprinkling of water on me with her paddle. “Who are you calling an old lady?”
“Not
A cocky young man at the boat rental stall greeted us with a tip of his straw hat. He seemed to think it humorous that the two of us “older” women wanted to rent a canoe and take it out by ourselves. He tried to convince us to wait half an hour until Evan, the boatman, returned with the fancy flatboat that most tourists “our age” preferred to take. Evan was, after all, an excellent punter.
Jill and I exchanged glances, and I knew we were of one mind.
“No thank you,” we both said.
“We’d prefer to take out a canoe on our own,” Jill added.
“All right then. You can have the red one there at the dock.”
We paid with cash, picked up our paddles and life vests, and clambered into the canoe while the young man at the boat stall watched.
Not being particularly experienced at canoeing, Jill and I got in facing each other instead of both facing the same direction.
“That’s not the way you should be seated,” the young man said with a snicker.
“This is the way we seat,” I said.
“Seat?”
“Sit,” I declared, settling in with as much dignity as I could at that point. “This is the way we sit.”
Jill was no help. She was laughing, and that made me want to laugh. But the situation wasn’t as funny as she may have thought because the challenge of swinging my legs around without unbalancing the canoe was more of a risk than I was willing to take.
“Do you want to turn the other way?” I asked Jill quietly.
“No, we can make this work. Come on, I’ll paddle us out of here.”
I am happy to report that we pulled off the procedure as graceful as swans and floated with the current into the center of the shallow river.
But once we moved away from the dock, our challenges came to the forefront. That’s when I put my paddle in the water, and Jill and I couldn’t synchronize our paddling. Every stroke I made seemed to cancel hers.
“Right side,” Jill called out.
I paddled vigorously.
“Your other right side!” she said, laughing. “We’re headed for the tules!”
I never was good at determining my right from my left when in a pinch. With four bold strokes, I managed to ram us right into the tall grasses along the riverbank.
“Let me try to back us up,” Jill said. “Don’t paddle.”
I realized then that the current was more of a problem than we had anticipated. In the deeper water toward the center of the river, the current appeared to gently flow back toward the boathouse. Along the side, where we were now wedged, a different, swirling current was at play.
Jill single-handedly maneuvered us out of the reeds and back into the calmer current, which, unfortunately, carried us right back to the dock at the boathouse before she and I had a chance to regroup and coordinate our paddling efforts.
“Hallo!” the smarty boat-boy greeted us from the launching dock where he had no doubt seen our entire escapade. “Does this mean we can sign you up then for the punting tour?”
“Just ignore him,” Jill said under her breath, as if we were two girls at summer camp and the older boys from the neighboring camp had invaded our lake.
I thought she was hilarious to say we should ignore him, but I couldn’t do it. I had to smart off. After all, he was wearing a straw hat and a bow tie like a missing member of a barber-shop quartet. He was begging for sassy comments from the tourists.
“We’re not sissies in this scenario.”
“That’s right. We are managing just fine, thank you,” Jill added politely.
“Yeah. Save your punting tickets for some other old ladies.”
“Kathy!” Jill flipped a sprinkling of water on me with her paddle. “Who are you calling an old lady?”
“Not
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