KAYAKS AND "WEAK STREAM"
With the exception of urinary infections, there is nothing worse than a flotilla of $4,000 plastic kayaks stuffed with fat, fifty-something men and women with "weak stream." On a given day one can walk across any body of water on the decks of kayaks.
Referred to as "ashtrays" by the Cigarette boat crowd, these pseudo boats are a nuisance to recreational boaters and merchant seamen alike. Flotsam and jetsam are what they really are; their paddlers no more in control of their "ships" than Captain George Bush.
Outfitted with more gear than Jacques Cousteau, these sorry mariners choke up every lake, river and harbor in these here United States.
Recently, I was forced to succumb to this sorry, trendy fad. My wife made me do it. She viewed kayaks in the Eskimalian, spiritual sense. We would summon the spirits and take to the seas in small boats to reconnect with our inner whale.
I don't have an "inner whale." I have an "outer whale." I barely fit into the cockpit. What I did reconnect to was my inner backache. Trying to keep the boat from doing a lateral 180 degrees (previously known as flipping), my previously-healed back went out again.
Evil kayak designers, tripping over one another to design the most tippy, "technical" craft possible, make long, skinny boats with bottoms so round that when you find yourself upside down in the water, you can theoretically "right" yourself.
When I want to find myself upside down in the water with a large, plastic bobber attached to my butt, I'll call the local Mafia and tell them their fellow Guineas cheated their way to the World Cup.
What kind of sport is that? Inverted in the water with a paddle in your hands and the boat above? I'd rather be up shit's creek without a paddle.
It's my worst fear: Invertephobia. I've been in that situation with cross-country skis: my head pointing towards the center of the Earth, and my skis still attached, crisscrossed upside down on the surface of the snow. The only reason they found me was that an X had marked the spot.
With all the accessories that come with kayaks these days, no one has figured out how to put a bathroom on one. Bobbing in the middle of Long Island Sound with a bunch of old farts on diuretics is less sport than comedy. Even if they make it to shore, de-boating in time is a rare occurrence.
Sure, every sport (e.g.: bicycling) has its assholes who dress like clowns and go out to push the envelope. I have a titanium racing bicycle that has tried to kill me twice. The ambulance driver, who thought I was unconscious in the back, remarked to his attendants that I looked like an overstuffed sausage designed by Peter Max.
Sure, we newbies have to go out and buy the same kayaks the pros use in order to look cool -- and not like trendy amateurs. It's peer pressure's fault. And sure, L.L Bean makes forgiving kayaks, but who would be caught dead in one? The brand is everything.
Well, discretion being the better part of valor, my sacroiliac demanded I trade in my techno-touring kayak for a stabler one. My new kayak is great. I can hang a 20 lb. Hibachi (and a large, sizzling steak) off the side and the kayak doesn't even lean.
Besides, now I can dive off the side of the kayak and take a little swim between beers. While underway, I sacrifice a few knots, but then, I try to stay within a soccer field's length of the dock, anyway. You never know when fog might roll in.
With the exception of urinary infections, there is nothing worse than a flotilla of $4,000 plastic kayaks stuffed with fat, fifty-something men and women with "weak stream." On a given day one can walk across any body of water on the decks of kayaks.
Referred to as "ashtrays" by the Cigarette boat crowd, these pseudo boats are a nuisance to recreational boaters and merchant seamen alike. Flotsam and jetsam are what they really are; their paddlers no more in control of their "ships" than Captain George Bush.
Outfitted with more gear than Jacques Cousteau, these sorry mariners choke up every lake, river and harbor in these here United States.
Recently, I was forced to succumb to this sorry, trendy fad. My wife made me do it. She viewed kayaks in the Eskimalian, spiritual sense. We would summon the spirits and take to the seas in small boats to reconnect with our inner whale.
I don't have an "inner whale." I have an "outer whale." I barely fit into the cockpit. What I did reconnect to was my inner backache. Trying to keep the boat from doing a lateral 180 degrees (previously known as flipping), my previously-healed back went out again.
Evil kayak designers, tripping over one another to design the most tippy, "technical" craft possible, make long, skinny boats with bottoms so round that when you find yourself upside down in the water, you can theoretically "right" yourself.
When I want to find myself upside down in the water with a large, plastic bobber attached to my butt, I'll call the local Mafia and tell them their fellow Guineas cheated their way to the World Cup.
What kind of sport is that? Inverted in the water with a paddle in your hands and the boat above? I'd rather be up shit's creek without a paddle.
It's my worst fear: Invertephobia. I've been in that situation with cross-country skis: my head pointing towards the center of the Earth, and my skis still attached, crisscrossed upside down on the surface of the snow. The only reason they found me was that an X had marked the spot.
With all the accessories that come with kayaks these days, no one has figured out how to put a bathroom on one. Bobbing in the middle of Long Island Sound with a bunch of old farts on diuretics is less sport than comedy. Even if they make it to shore, de-boating in time is a rare occurrence.
Sure, every sport (e.g.: bicycling) has its assholes who dress like clowns and go out to push the envelope. I have a titanium racing bicycle that has tried to kill me twice. The ambulance driver, who thought I was unconscious in the back, remarked to his attendants that I looked like an overstuffed sausage designed by Peter Max.
Sure, we newbies have to go out and buy the same kayaks the pros use in order to look cool -- and not like trendy amateurs. It's peer pressure's fault. And sure, L.L Bean makes forgiving kayaks, but who would be caught dead in one? The brand is everything.
Well, discretion being the better part of valor, my sacroiliac demanded I trade in my techno-touring kayak for a stabler one. My new kayak is great. I can hang a 20 lb. Hibachi (and a large, sizzling steak) off the side and the kayak doesn't even lean.
Besides, now I can dive off the side of the kayak and take a little swim between beers. While underway, I sacrifice a few knots, but then, I try to stay within a soccer field's length of the dock, anyway. You never know when fog might roll in.
posted by R. Reynolds at 9:28 AM
2 Comments:
Knowing the propencity of the editor to wax on about the Kayaker-in-chief, I realize today how much influence our leader has over our author.
While in his plastic buble, our editor, stays a soccer field's length from the dock, mirroring the famous "mission accoplished" speech given on another craft just a soccer field's length from the dock. --USCE
I realize that propensity, bubble and accomplished is mispelled. I thought I was just going to preview the message, not send it out!!!--USCE
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