Me and you in a little canoe. . . .

November 4, 2010


Stephen is very much an outdoors person.

Or at least he was until we got married and he traded the outdoors for the couch and after dinner meals at midnight.

When we first got together, I had *no idea* what fate befell me each and everytime he said,

"I have something fun planned for us!"

On the outside, my face was beaming with anticipation.

On the inside I wondered what natured-themed torture was waiting for me.

Because while I like the outdoors, raking, walking, shoveling snow, weed wacking, my idea of "something fun" doesn't seem to resonate with Stephen as much as it, perhaps, could.




Shortly after Stephen and I got together, Meredyth and Keith headed to Ontario for their father's third wedding.

He's had so many, it's hard to keep track.

Stephen and I took this opportunity to engage in some bonding with Em.

We decided it would be fun to go hiking on a lovely trail at Mactaquac.

This is one of our favourite trails. . . at the midpoint, there is a lean to, brook, benches. . .the dogs and Stephen can muck around in the brook as much as they want, and the rest of the hike is a heart beat increasing promenade with Frankie covering at least three times the trail with his running back and forth to make sure his entire pack is still moving.

After our first constitutional around this trail, however, there was strong objection to ever going again.

At least with Stephen.

It was a lovely spring day, breeze blowing, Tikka excited to be going on a new adventure, me wearing Mer's sneakers, Em with sandles cradling her feet.

Stephen was in hiking boots.

That should have been our first sign that all was not right in Denmark.

We made it to the lean-to, enjoying our rest, respite and Tikka and Em frolicking in the brook.

All was lovely.  Even Em, who likes the outdoors as much as a bamboo splinter under her fingernail, was enjoying herself.

And everything went downhill from there.

After the lean-to, we zigged when we should have zagged.

At least we know that now.

But then, Em and I followed Stephen and Tikka like ducklings following their mother.

Blindly.

After about 50 minutes, we found ourselves ankle deep in swamp, and Em tugged on my sleeve and asked,

"Do you think we're lost, Mummy?"

"Oh no, honey, Stephen knows where we're going."

But my head was steadily nudging me to the conclusion that this man we'd been blindly following had no idea where we were, where we were going and he didn't know how to tell me.

So, I asked him.

And he sheepishly admitted that he thought he might have taken a wrong turn.

I did the only thing I could.

I took charge.

And we eventually found ourselves at a road.

But we knew not where this road went, or how close we were to our starting point.

We finally flagged a car, and the driver pointed us in the right direction.

After walking for another 45 minutes, I knew where we were.

And it was NO where near our starting place.

Just before you pass the gas station on the way to the park entrance, there is a road.

Scotch Lake Road.

And that is where we were.

How did I know this?

Because a couple of summers before this traumatic trek,  the kids and I had attended a bbq at the then vice-president academic's house.

And I was standing at the top of his very long driveway.

Imagine how happy I was with Stephen at this point.

Imagine.

We kept walking, Tikka and Stephen ahead of me and Em.

Em literally winding down like a clock, she was so tired.

And both of us had to pee very badly, and unlike Stephen and Tikka, we couldn't pee anywhere we wanted outside.

Eventually, we make it to the gas station.

Emily refuses point blank to walk one.step.further.

We use the bathroom, buy something to drink, and park ourselves outside the gas station, and wait while Stephen and Tikka stalwardly continue onward towards the car.

Emily has never worn an expression of such an intense relief when she saw our burgundy Sonata pull into the parking lot of the gas station.

She and Tikka passed out in the living room as soon as we had finished supper.

It took months to convince Em to walk that trail again with Stephen.

And she only went because I had packed provisions and made sure she wore sneakers.




Insanity is defined as doing the same thing over and over again hoping for a different result.

A couple of summers after our traipsing the Mactaquac trail, all the kids were away in Ontario for a couple of weeks, so Stephen and I decided to drive to Fundy Park for the day.

And because I was obviously insane, I allowed Stephen to plan the day.

Hence we ended up on the Coastal Trail.

Stephen indicated when we arrived that it may be a "little steep" at the beginning, but after that, we would engage in a leisurely stroll, enjoying the ocean breeze on our faces, the smell of salt air, and the gorgeous scenery.

He was 60% right.

The ocean breeze was on our faces.

Gorgeous scenery.

Salt in the air.

But "leisurely stroll" was way off.

I imagine this hike of epic proportions was similar to the Von Trapps traversing the Alps in their bid for freedom.

And we only did half of it, because it was three hours in, which meant it'd be a three hour walk out. . .at least.

On the way back, we had to walk over a small platform, presumably covering swamp too mucky to walk through.

Stephen, after walking the length of this platform, stood at the end and for a reason he still can't provide, started jumping up and down.

And then he asked me how come the grass was so prickly, stingy almost.

Well, that would be because in his cavorting at the end of the platform, he managed to raise the ire of a nest of hornets.

Who were not, in the least, pleased with Stephen's capricious cavorting.

Rebelling against this ferocious force threatening their peace and serenity, the hornets attacked, stinging Stephen's legs.

He moved off the end of that platform faster than Wile E. Coyote after the Roadrunner.

Yeah, right?

No.

Because while he was creating conniptions among the hornets, I was at the other end of the platform.

With two choices: trudge through the swampy sludge covered by the platform, or, wait for the raging hornets to settle down.

Option B it was. 

Stephen at one end, nursing his wounds, me at the other, fuming about being held captive by the hornets and Stephen's stupidity. 

Finally, it would seem the nest of voracious vipers had calmed down and I began my slow and perilous passage over the platform to the freedom awaiting me on the other side. 

I suppose I should be thankful that Stephen wasn't allergic to the stings, otherwise, I would have had to haul his sorry butt of the trail and I can tell you it would have been an unusually bumpy ride.  




These things were tolerable because the humiliation that was suffered by all stayed within the tight confines of our family.

Our adventures, however, took a turn south when Stephen decided we should include our friends in his woods and water wackiness.

He arranged an outing at the Bucket Club with our friends C and C.

Canoeing.

I have never canoed in my life.

Ever.

And my only experiences on boats, period, was with large boats powered by engines.

Not paddling.

And definitely not my paddling.

From the onset, I knew this was not going to be an enjoyable encounter.

The canoes were small, and my bootie was not.

C and C were in their canoe and happily paddling within minutes of our arrival.

Stephen and I were still on the dock, negotiating how I was going to get into the canoe, let alone manage to stay afloat in it.

Somehow, some way, we managed to get into the canoe, and started our journey up the Saint John River.

Within ten minutes of paddling as close to the shore as possible, we unexpectedly found ourselves unhappily splashing in the muddy waters.

The canoe was small, tippy.

Stephen sat at the front of the canoe, and bravely attempted to paddle us alone, because all my paddling efforts resulted in us going in circles.

So we decided it was better if I just sat there and did nothing.

But even that wasn't enough to keep us out of the drink.

Meanwhile, C and C had paddled over to a little island and were enjoying the entertainment Stephen and I were providing.

Within an hour, we had managed to fall into the river five times.

And each and every time was unquestionably, unequivocally my fault.

On the way back to the dock, both of us soaked to the skin, a lone Stephen soak floated by us, going in the other direction.

Stephen asked me to lean over and get it.

But I was stock and statue still, now at the front of the canoe, and there was no way I was going to risk another dunking for the sake of one, lone, wool sock. 

The next day, I presented Stephen with a dozen pairs of wool socks, and a promise that he would never, ever, in the entirety of our lives together ever ask me to get into a canoe with him or anyone else for any reason short of a life threatening flood, again. 

I could have thrown myself into the Saint John River five times for free and saved myself the cost of renting a canoe.

Plus, the cost of replacing Stephen's socks. 

And the long term damage to my self-esteem. 

Because the humiliation I experienced in the Saint John River in front of C and C was nothing compared to the irritating banter, the exasperating mocking, the plaguing provocation I had to endure at the hands of my loving, caring children.


Title Lyric: Boy and Girl in a Little Canoe by Children.