Hanging Out Underwater

I successfully completed the first two of three days of kayak lessons. Hard to believe, especially when I consider the outcome of my first assignment--the wet exit. Let me explain.

The "wet exit" is the technique of learning how to free yourself from your kayak while hanging upside-down underwater secured snugly in you boat by a tight, elasticized spray skirt. Think of that last piece of gear, the spray skirt, as a burial shroud. Or maybe an elasticized panic blanket.

Abetted, but not aided, by my PFD (personal floatation device), I discovered the sinister truth: the laws of gravity, or more specifically, SPECIFIC GRAVITY, and Murphy's Law work well underwater. Maybe even better than on dry land. So my first assignment in the kayaking class went something like this:

DAY 1

INSTRUCTOR: Karen, are you ready?
(I wiggle my boat into the water after watching 3 other classmates successfully complete their wet exits]
ME: Uh ... yeah. Ready as I'll ever be.
[I paddle out to where the instructor stands waist-deep in the water.]
INSTRUCTOR: Okay, here you go. One ... two ... THREE!

I gulp some air as he flips me over underwater, and, to my horror, I find that I'm now stretched out parallel to my boat--that is, with my back against the boat stern. This is precisely the maneuver the instructor warned us against not two minutes earlier, the one position that beginners often assume.

Now, I've been in some compromising positions before, but nothing like this one. Those others may have theatened my reputation, and even my sanity, but this one was threatening my LIFE. Result: I couldn't reach the spray skirt strap to free myself. And in my panic, I couldn't even realize what the problem was.

Result: inordinate, uncontrolled thrashing underwater.

I try, as my pitiful life flashes before my eyes, to raise my right--or was it my left?--hand out of the water to beg the instructor to turn my boat upright. About five years later, he gets the hint and hauls me up into the beautiful, oxygen-rich, rainy-day top of the world.

INSTRUCTOR: Are you okay? Just relax. You're fine.... Okay, how about you go hang out on the shore and get it together?

I did. And I didn't.

I spend the rest of that first day learning, or trying to learn, various paddling techniques--straight-ahead strokes, the sweep (a shallow, full-boat-length swoosh of the paddle designed to turn the kayak in the opposite direction the sweep is on), carving (wherein the kayaker leans the craft over to the right and/or left as far as possible without actually capsizing, all the while maintaining some forward speed), low and high bracing (slapping the water with your paddle just before you tip, which rights your boat), and some forward-backward manuevering. These things are all well and good, but I keep my spray skirt unhooked from my boat at the request of one of my instructors, which makes the 'yak take on a consdierable about of water from time to time. Thoughts of Gilligan's Island's ship the Minnow occassionally float into my consciousness. Or maybe of the Titanic. I occassionally dump my boat as the lessons proceed behind me. I know things aren't going exactly as I had imagined.

Before lunch, my instructor asks me to try that wet exit again. I still can't make myself roll under. I may as well have been asked to swallow a handful of broken glass.

After lunch, we play a couple rounds of "Sharks and Minnows" and "Steal the Rock," which are games designed to get your mind OFF learning to kayak, thus making you actually perform better. I am not quite sure this helps me, but the games are fun. Then a close lightning strike ends our already cold and rainy first day.

As I trudge up the shore and stand in my cold wetsuit gazing into my bag full of dry gear, I'm aware that others are busy rustling around me. "I KNOW I'm supposed to do something with this bag, but what?"

"You can change back at RMOC," one of my instructors, K.T., a girl from New Zealand, says reassuringly. Yeah. I can do that.

DAY 2:

I am the first to arrive for the second class day, sore but hopeful, and a little worried that I'm not ready to be on the Arkansas--even for the "light" stuff we'll be doing--eddy entrances, exits, reading the river, and I don't even know what else. The thought of my non-wet-exit day haunts me.

Suddenly, I'm surrounded by my instructors.
ONE INSTRUCTOR: We've talked it over, and we've been thinking ....

Right here I believe they're going to tell me I'm just not cut out for this kayaking thing.

INSTRUCTOR: ....that you're really probably not ready for the Arkansas. You know, the river is running really high right now, and we think you'd benefit from another day on the lake with K.T. How would you feel about that?
ME: [relieved] I agree. I'm not ready, and I'm fine with that.

That same relief crosses everyone's face. In no time, K.T. and I head for the same reservior and begin our workout. I feel gratitude rising in my heart, and my fear sliding away with the cloud cover. The sun comes out.

K.T. and I spend the first part of the day working hard on refining my paddling skills. By mid-morning, I'm tired, but getting better at going straight when I want to (possible in a boat, and real life, I'm happy to say), turns, make-believe eddy entrances and exits, carves, and even some figure 8 carves. My boat, like my body, doesn't always behave, but I try my best. The rest is all about learning my boat and in finding my limitations.

After lunch, we're back to the hair of the dog that bit me: the wet exit.

After going through the motions of the wet exit on dry land, we transition into the water. I am amazed at how different this feels than the day before.

KT: Okay, I'm going to barrel-roll you. Here we go.

[She rolls my boat completely several times in each direction. My spray skirt is on. My nose and ears fill with water, but my earplugs do their job, lessening my misery.]

KT: Now I'm going to roll you under and I want you to count. I'll probably have you up before you can get to 3.

She does.

KT: Now, I'm going to roll you under. I want you to say to yourself, 'I LIKE being underwater.' I'll have you up before you can finish saying that.

She does.

KT: This time, I'm going to roll you under, and I want you to hug your boat. Tap on the top when you're ready to come up.

[I roll under, hold my breath, finally getting comfortable at this idea, and she rolls me upright.

KT: You didn't tap, but I just wanted to be sure.
ME: I was fine. I hadn't yet tapped.
KT: You're getting it!

And I am. Several more variations and attempts later, I feel as though this wet-exit thing is within my grasp.

As we haul our boats and gear up to the truck, she tells me I'm ready to be on the river for that 3rd day of instruction. I am relieved and satisfied, so much so that it mitigates the pain I'm feeling after two hard days of physical labor. My mind, so accustomed to a small box, has been let out into the bright world, too. And it feels good.

My 3rd day will be July 19th. I can hardly wait. I'll be travelling to TX between now and then, and I hope to get in some boat time through renting while I'm there, and a couple more days on lakes here. My heartfelt thanks to the able staff at Rocky Mountain Outdoor Center--Greg, Ben, and K.T.--for their instruction and patience.

Here's a little something I came across in Kayaking, a book published by the American Canoe Association:
"Being relaxed in a kayak demands that you be comfortable hanging out underwater."

All I can say to that is, "No kidding."