On Saturday the youngster and I threw a change of clothes into the car and motored south to Monterey Bay. The air was cool and crisp, perfect for our first-ever ocean kayak trip. We met the other members of our group, a mixture of experienced kayakers and novices. After donning a wet suit, paddling jacket, and life vest, slathering sunscreen over our face and arms, and topping everything with a hat and sunglasses, we were ready for business.
The two guides explained the basics of paddling, braking, and turning, and we climbed into our lightweight craft and headed out to the first marker buoy. It took us a few minutes to synchronize our movements; the furious splashing of the oars signaled our inexperience as we brought up the rear of our 10-vessel fleet.
I pulled out a half-broken digital camera (the LCD screen had been shattered last year) and happily snapped away at the sea otters and sea lions. Surely, I thought, a few shots would meet the standards of this journal’s discriminating readership. The instructor began talking about the ocean flora, and the youngster lazily reached over the side to grab a piece of kelp. In an instant our feet flew up and we were in the water, the kayak resting upside down over our heads.
It took 15 minutes for the guides to right the kayak and for us to climb back aboard, weighted down with wet clothes, sputtering and mortified. The camera lies at the bottom of Monterey Bay, its .jpg files lost to posterity. Although we dried quickly and completed the tour without further mishap, it was impossible to recapture the pre-capsize state of bliss, and I glanced at my (waterproof) watch more than once on the way back.
A final accounting includes a wet cellphone that still doesn’t work, and credit cards and a car remote that do. After lunch we stopped to buy a gift for Mother’s Day. It was kind of her to let us go on this expedition, but why should we have all the fun?
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