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.