Overboard
Did Juneau where I’m currently living?
There was a big hint there. Hope you picked up on it. But because I have little faith in you- I’m living in Juneau. Juneau, Alaska. Which is part of the United States despite what three different Sprint employees I talked to think.
My experience of the United States involves a lot more Subway Sandwiches and Curves franchises than I’ve seen in Juneau but nonetheless I’m convinced that I’m still in America. First of all, there are guns. Second, an obesity epidemic. And third, there’s all sorts of people who frequently take cruises. To be fair most of them don’t live in Juneau but they are around. And round. One could go so far as describe them as portly. Which is also close to a boat vocabulary word.
All in all I would say I’m thriving. There have been highs- including almost exclusively the low caliber of humor required to get a canoe full of cruisers knee slapping. There have been lows- which ironically usually involve being dragged to the top of mountains. But there were definitely a few lows this week that didn’t involve mountains at all. Have you ever had one of those weeks where you work on top of lake but somehow you’ve ended up in the lake not once but thrice.. i mean twice. Been there, pal, been there.
The first one I certainly had coming. I tried to trust my sense of balance on a trailer. Plot twist- I shouldn’t have. Luckily I was able to fall into the lake in front of colleagues and colleagues alone. It may take awhile to regain their respect but I have all summer so I’m optimistic.
The second time, though, was a bit different. To understand the full impact, I’ll have to walk you through why it was so stressful for the witnesses. Every day, we start our typical canoe tour by reading the fun and dynamic safety waiver to our newfound canoers. This safety waiver goes through all the ways that said canoers may die on my watch. When we get that bit over with, we put them in rain gear that can only be described as the perfect blend of Alaska fisherman chic and moldy. Then it’s time to board the canoe. But before anyone can do that, we give one more safety presentation where we again tell them the different obstacles that may lead to their death over the next two hours. Almost all of which have to do with succumbing to hypothermia in the 34 degree water. At this point my cruisers are smiling nervously, eyes darting back and forth, wondering if it’s too late to go back to one of the 25 diamond stores they forwent at the port. But nonetheless we lull* them into the boat.
*by ‘lull’ I mean push and pull with our full strength to get some of the heftier ones on board.
So picture this: now we have a full canoe of cruisers who are basically in scuba gear to fend off any drops of water that would have the audacity to fall on them while they are in a canoe on a lake in a rainforest. These cruiser canoe-ists are now keenly aware of the exact temperature of the water and the danger that it poses. It is my job to ramble off neature facts and perfectly timed puns to keep their minds off of the safety concerns and hypothermia lurking beneath our boat.
Halfway through one of my always successful and hilarious tours, I began angling my 37 foot canoe towards the beach where I will help the cruisers do what they do best: eat. As I pulled up, like a motherf*cking gentleman, I hit a sandbar that has disguised itself by being undetectable to the naked eye. I jumped out, test the waters if you will, and saw that you could not walk to the beach without hitting a deep stretch. Professionalism still in tact, I hopped back onto the canoe and went in for round two of what proved to be the biggest parking challenge of my young life
This time I made it up to the beach, canoe nice and perpendicular. I tried to swing it around for one of those infamous native canoe parallel parking jobs that we all take for granted. But my 400 pound boat loaded down with people who frequent all-you-can-eat buffets, would not budge. I realized that I’d have to take one for the team and jump out to pull and prod the canoe to the perfect unloading position. That had happened before. I am no stranger to having to get into the lake waste deep at this particular beach. And I was starting to feel the pressure because I wanted to get this damn thing parked before the usual “You just need a man’s help!” was blurted out by the token 60 year old white man in the canoe. So I took a leap of faith.
As I hopped, my toes went searching for the sand beneath me. But alas there was nothing for them to find. I realized much too late that 5′11″ was not tall enough to touch bottom. The illustrious drop off was just below my boots. I fell back on some of those skills I learned as a JV swimmer and bobbed at the surface just as my entire canoe of cruisers looked down in horror to see their fearless captain overboard. As I came up I began, with flawless form might I add, to doggy paddle to the beach. I looked up at my cruisers with a big smile on my face, hoping my sense of calm would fool them into thinking this happens all the time. By the looks on their faces though, I knew that it had not. Their eyes filled with terror and their mouths were agape. I could almost see the safety waiver floating through their minds.
Despite all the warnings of death and hyperthermia that we had laid out pre-tour for them, I made it out of the water alive and shook off like a wet dog. Instantly every able-bodied man was out of the canoe trying to pull the boat into place, having lost faith in my ability to do so. Meanwhile all the women on board had started an Alaskan strip tease. They were shedding two to three layers of fleece garments and insisting that I wear them all. I had to spend the next eight minutes trying to fight them off. It almost had to get physical. I reassured them that I was Alaskan tough and needed to take a dip to cool off anyways. They took this opportunity to remind me that I am actually only Kansan tough and therefore my delicate constitution could not handle a glacial lake without 17 layers of fleece pullovers. It was an astute observation but I stood my ground. It was difficult to get them to stop looking at me like I was a dying baby bird, but as we say in the tour industry, the show must go on. I paddled back, dripping wet and a thousand percent less trustworthy to the others in my canoe.
When the tour ended, people were shoving money into my hands.
“This will help you get a new phone.” They said sympathetically.
“I appreciate your commitment to the perfect parking job.” They patted me on the back.
So in the end, falling into the lake (twice) wasn’t the worst thing that’s ever happened to me. Next time I size up a group that looks a little stingy or boring, I might pull that trick again. But maybe not. Ending up in the lake twice in three days was a career low for me. I hope at least. But it’s hard to say for sure.
