How To Get Out of a Kayak
By Andrew Meblin
A man and woman, married for thirty years, had tastes and desires so similar that they rarely disagreed. From the planning of their wedding, to the location of where to celebrate their thirtieth anniversary, the two fine people were almost always in sync with each other.
He was an engineer and she was an artist. He calculated the strength of materials put to use in construction projects, while she assembled tactile art (art you can touch) and sculptures from found items in nature. But like all good things, this would develop a glitch.
For despite all their accord and domestic sameness, a heavy disagreement as they were planning the event was based on a silly thing like how to get out of a boat. To entertain their guests (and to brag about their success by showing off their new hobby farm complete with a three-acre pond with swans and koi), the pair planned to board their kayaks and paddle around the water, before returning to the shore and their guests.
His was an aggressive watercraft, designed for navigating rapids and whitewater, while hers was a graceful flat-water boat. His was made out of hard, crack-resistant plastic, and was an electric chartreuse with purple graphics. Hers was made out of the finest cedar planking, in a fine mix of indigenous tradition, and modern technology. His was a short stubby affair, while hers was - at 16 feet long - four times as long.
But both boats were perfectly safe on the pond. The crux of the disagreement was how to embark and disembark, get in and out of the kayaks. He preferred to climb into the cockpit from a position further from the water, whereas she liked to slip into her craft from a surface very close to the surface of the pond.
The discussion became an argument, which turned into full-flung fight. Their marriage counselor solved the problem. Build two completely different structures from which each could take command of their individual kayak. His would be made from sturdy timbers, and thick planking, raised far above the water, so he could drop straight in to the cockpit. Hers would be an elegant assembly, with a low height that enabled her to lithely enter her kayak. His was stained a deep mahogany brown. Hers painted with a marine-grade tint of Swiss Coffee. Problem solved.
And so the couple’s guests traipsed down to the lake (pond), champagne flutes in hand, to watch the great kayak voyage. She paddled with long, smooth, deliberate strokes, gliding effortlessly, joined, amazingly, by the elegant slow-motion of the swans, one on each side, as soft, gentle ripples spreading out in a V from behind the finely crafted vessel of wood. He dropped into his stumpy boat with a thump, and proceeded to dig with vigor and in earnest with his oar blades, stabbing the water, making rough swirls in the formerly mirror of a surface. The wake off the stern of his chartreuse hull almost matched the energy of the purple graphics.
Amazingly, both sailors returned to their starting points at the same time, and each one grabbed hold of their support railings, rose from their boats, and emerged on their respective platforms, to the applause of all in attendance.
Thus was born the heterodox.
Sorry. So sorry.