The Canoe Incident - Part One
My dabble with the fine sport of canoeing is chequered, involving physical and emotional extremes. I have felt pure elation and connection with the natural world; enjoyed incredible scenery and fun with family; the worst cold and dampness I’ve ever experienced with a mighty dollop of embarrassment thrown in.
It all began in 1978 during Fresher’s Week at University. The grand, oak paneled hall was packed with tables manned (and woman-ed) by enthusiastic sports and club members, eager to snap up new recruits. I came away with memberships to the rock climbing, parachuting and canoeing clubs. I never did attend meetings of the first two, but took to the third like the proverbial duck!
The UK academic year starts in September/October, so my first experience involved practice sessions in the heated, campus pool using stubby learner canoes that were light and exceptionally manouverable. Most of us had no trouble performing simple laps; some of us could side scuttle; but only a few of us learnt to execute the Eskimo roll. It was all going so well. I was a natural, a sporting success story for once in my life. No more the last girl standing, as leaders picked their teams.
But a note of anxiety was taking root. The club was planning its first outing to Lake Ullswater in the Lake District. In November. Camping. We were already experiencing a harsh winter in Leeds with early falls of snow. But even I couldn’t have imagined what was to come, and not just on the exposed banks of a large expanse of water.
Competence in a new manoeuvre was required. We had to learn a technique for managing a capsize in deep water. The lack of a foothold was the key issue. We would be treading water whilst emptying the canoe and, somehow, getting back in. Practicing now took place in the deep end of the pool.
Emptying the canoe wasn’t especially difficult in a nice, warm environment. True, it was slow, swimming from one end to the other, lifting and repeating the process several times. Then came the hard bit. Our instructor showed us how we should situate ourselves against one side of the cockpit, grab across the gap to the other side and then propel ourselves up and over. Once his body was balanced across the vessel, he wiggled himself into a straddle, neatly tucking his feet and legs inside and slithering back down onto the seat. Simple. Then it was our turn.
I figured an all-out launching motion was the only option. I guessed I had one chance only, otherwise I’d tire and fail. I was thinking about nothing else, nothing except rocketing upwards. More’s the pity. So, here’s the thing - what are the chances, do you think, of a pair of bikini bottoms withstanding such momentum? Correct. None. As I hurtled upwards, they steadfastly remained water bound. As I felt the sliding of lycra and cool air assaulting my behind, I sank back downwards, an embarrassed failure. I made my excuses and bolted for the changing room.
I can’t honestly remember - clad in a one-piece, obviously - whether I managed to master this drill but I know I went on the trip. Camping. In November. To Lake Ullswater.
That’s a story for another day!
The Canoe Incident - Part Two
In the first part of this story, I described losing my bikini bottoms in front of a group of canoe club members. Though that incident was mortifying, my memories of learning to master the techniques of kayak paddling - albeit in a warm, indoor swimming pool - were good. My recollections of the club’s first canoe trip, however, are overwhelmingly grim. In those days, the concept of ‘forward thinking’ was low down in my skill set and so the idea of camping on the side of a lake in November didn’t fill me with nearly enough concern. True, I was anxious about the possibility of a deep water capsize, but other aspects of the outing, including my preparedness in terms of appropriate clothing and kit, failed to enter my consciousness. Besides, my mind was elsewhere in a dizzying, fantasy world of teenage romance. The trip would involve spending a whole weekend with John.
John was at least a year older, very fit and a canoe aficionado. He performed Eskimo rolls on a whim, effortlessly heaved kayaks in and out of the water and was charming to us, new recruits. He had me at ‘spray skirt’. Annoyingly, I had a rival. We paced around each other, one eye on our competitor and one eye on our gorgeous instructor. We both signed up for the canoe trip.
The journey from Leeds to the Lake District unfolded under leaden skies and took us north and west on a route that skirted the Yorkshire Dales. Our vehicle was a rattly transit van with no discernible form of heating. As freezing rivers and streams rushed past the window, I remained in la-la land, quietly nursing the elation of being chosen to share a tent with John. However, that happiness soon leaked away when, as we helped erect the tents, my rival announced she would be sharing too. It was a bewildering moment. Had he invited us both hoping or, perhaps, expecting one of us to drop out? Was this an ego trip, sleeping alongside two women who had both made their intentions clear? Did he plan to demonstrate his preference in full view of the other, to make his decision explicit – a prospect that was both thrilling and nerve jangling. All I know is that the three of us bedded down; John fell asleep immediately; nothing happened and yet I awoke exhausted, confused and chilled. Apart from the brain fatigue caused by trying to work out his motives, it had become apparent that my sleeping bag was inadequate. It deserved a rating of nothing more than, ‘Teenage sleepover, only, preferably in a centrally heated house’.
With a heavy heart I got ready for my first glide on the water. The lake was enormous, black sheened and oddly terrifying. It looked as if it, too, could hold a monster. By the time we’d assembled the craft, the wind had picked up significantly, adding choppy waves to the vista. Some of the more experienced canoeists deftly pushed off into deeper water. Us newbies hung back, suddenly unsure of our abilities and willingness to test them. One of the girls bravely set off, pushing herself over the gravelly shore with an upright oar. No sooner was she afloat, than the top blade caught a gust of wind, flipping her into the shallows. No deep-water rescue required, it seemed, simply a soggy, walk of shame. The rest of us watched on, realising how unforgiving the weather and lake would be. I have few memories of that paddle – frozen, probably, deep within my cold brain - though I’m sure I must have joined in. I can see myself returning to shore, petrified but jubilant to be within metres of dry, solid ground. The daydreams of becoming a kayaking maestro were beginning to fade. I wanted to go home, away from John and the lake but was trapped there for another day.
By the time we went to bed, the wind was howling and the nearby trees were bending and creaking in the gale. The array of flimsy tents were buffeting; bright sheets of nylon were sucking and blowing; guy ropes were straining. We bunkered down and listened nervously to the groans and screeches. John fell asleep, naturally. But even he awoke as voices rent the air. After a quick inspection, he ducked back inside to inform us that several tents had either blown down or away. We would need to make room for some of the others. Despite sharing a small tent and the body heat of at least four more people, I woke up as cold and miserable as I had the previous day. I remember emerging from the tent to a scene of destruction as club members searched the grounds and shoreline for errant belongings.
Not that the events of the night dampened their enthusiasm. There was time for one last paddle before heading home, they announced. My stomach knotted. This time it was my turn to flip over and take a dunk in the black, icy water. Fortunately, I too had a foothold and was able to get myself back to the shore. By now the camp had been dismantled and the group were keen to get home. I scanned the immediate horizon for somewhere suitable to change out of my wet clothes, and when that failed, resolved to endure a damp and uncomfortable journey home rather than expose my bare behind yet again. Three, bone chilling hours later, it took a steaming bath in student accommodation that was perpetually overheated, to raise my core temperature to something resembling normal.
I think I might have gone back to the club a few more times but the reality of canoeing in the winter in northern England had left its mark. Even John’s allure couldn’t persuade me to change my mind. I didn’t give up entirely but have been a fair-weather paddler ever since.
THE END