I knew I made a mistake when I sent the text.
Ever do that? Write a text or email, hit send and then think to yourself, “Wait a minute! What the heck did I just unleash!?!”
It was to my brother. The text read: “So what are you all doing this weekend? Amelie is wondering if a canoe expedition might be possible.”
The reply was immediate: “It is. Would you be rockin’ The Sea Eagle or did you grab an aluminum canoe?”
Mind you, I don’t have any flotation devices. “The Sea Eagle” is his inflatable kayak that is pretty easy to haul around, sturdy and can be blown up on short notice. But in my brother’s parlance, the name is less a brand or product, and more like Mel Gibson yelling, “FREEDOM!” in “Braveheart.” He talks about “The Sea Eagle” like it’s another family member – like they hangout and share a beer while discussing politics and manly things; like they peered into each other’s souls and formed a union.
My daughter had been asking about doing this for a while. Trying to get us all together. Trying to get me to buy a canoe. Trying to get us to go on one of these expeditions that my brother cooks up with his 6-year-old son, Striker. She’s gone on a couple as they traipse through the woods looking for old, forgotten railroad lines or “artifacts” along the Intracoastal that could be ancient Native American pottery, or maybe petrified poop. It’s kind of a hit-or-miss thing.
Wanting to get out of the house, out into the wilds and spend a little (socially-distanced) time with family made this high on her list.
Apparently, my brother’s, too. The texts started flying fast and free.
“Yep, lemme just think which is the best place for The Sea Eagle. Deep Creek might be a bit pointy. Pellicer should be good. Need to reconnoiter the launch spot. Thinking Moultrie Creek, putting in at U.S. 1, or possibly braving Deep Creek. You guys can swim, yeah?”
This was going swell.
We met up early on Saturday morning with my brother, his wife, their kid, their canoe and The Sea Eagle, all on the side of the road. I like my nephew, partly because he reminds me of my brother at that age. The kind of kid whose first words out of his mouth are never a greeting, but usually something more profound like, “Look at this rock I found. It’s a rock!” or “I walked in on my dad while he was using the bathroom … again.”
Good stuff, and lots of actionable information. He is a bouncy kid. The type who never has two feet on the ground at the same time, and is constantly moving around as if he couldn’t decide whether he should dance, run like a cheetah or show you some Native American pottery that might actually be poop. Instead, he does all three at exactly the same time.
It turned out to be a good outing. Beautiful weather. Lazy stroll down the creek to a railroad bridge, where we all got out to sample the mud on the shore and poke around for rocks and artifacts and rusty, tetanus-y things that had fallen off the tracks. To my brother and nephew, this seemed like treasure. Not to me. Mud and tetanus-y junk is not my thing. But my daughter got a kick out of it.
We joked around, ate snacks and for a while forgot there was a world around us inundated with dread and fear and uncertainty, all thanks to a virus.
Then we piled back into the vessels and paddled into the oncoming tide. The lazy stroll somehow devolved into a manic race. That’s the thing about my family: Can’t just enjoy a moment. Take a moment. Stay lazy. Always have to pepper on a little hardship and pain for good measure. Let a couple of little kids rule the day when they start screaming, “Yeah, let’s beat them!”
And the 6-year-old … I get that. But I thought 14-year-olds were supposed to be totally distant, hate talking to their dads and spend all their time messing around on their phones. That they wouldn’t be caught dead yelling: “ROW, DAD!!! We’re gaining on them!”
“I AM rowing, thank you,” I replied, straining and out-of-breath. “Besides, we’re gonna’ make that little kid cry if we pass them.”
“Yeah?” she said. “Well, I’M gonna’ cry if we don’t!”
I felt weird strains and pains. I had obviously done something wrong with “The Sea Eagle’s” inflatable seat because I was now lying down flat in the boat like a recliner while I trying to row. My stomach muscles twitched and my brother worried I was having a stroke. “GO SEA EAGLE!!!” I screamed.
It’s a couple days later now and much of my body still hurts. I think the dehydration has finally subsided, but the tetanus has not. Stupid railway junk!
But my daughter is still talking about it. Still asking when we can “rock The Sea Eagle” again. When we can get back out on the water to search for artifacts and give a hearty cry of, “FREEDOM!” while paddling down the lazy creek.