Well then. I could tell you about a lot of things right now, including big skies/flat prairie, my belief that it is silly to order seafood when you are as far from an ocean as you can possibly get on this planet, a dam that creates a 44,000 ha reservoir, a surprisingly functional sustainable living concept, and all sorts of silliness involving too much Chilean wine to make the Saskatchewan landscape prettier. But that is for another day, because right now, I feel the need to unburden myself about air travel.
Air Canada is not one of those airlines that frequently (ever!) make it to the "best" (food, comfort, service, uniforms, toilets, entertainment program...) lists for air travel. Nevertheless, it is the frequent recipient of cash-for-boarding-pass deals for three reasons: 1. they fly where I need to go, and as directly as possible when your home base is Lester B. Pearson Toronto International Airport aka YYZ; 2. they book their Canada-U.S. flights as one-ways, thus allowing Johanna-style complicated travel when necessary; and 3. I am a points geek, so much so that I have attained the coveted top-tier status and thus get to take my cheap luggage over to the executive class counter and use the lounge when I am not actually out of the "free stuff! and I have a pocket!" phase yet.
So there are things I appreciate. But there are others that I do not. On Sunday last, Gwen and I showed up at the airport for a 9:50 a.m. flight (as per our e-tickets) at the ungodly and ridiculously too early time of 8:35. This is not because we are so punctual, but because of the shuttle service we use and its tendency to deliver you far too early. This was fine with us: the lounge has free stuff! And we sashayed up to the snotty counter where they are actually polite and presented ourselves, surrendered our bags - which were tagged with a bright orange priority arrow, and were told that we were cutting it close. Apparently, our silly flight left at 9:00. Not that the travel agent (I don't usually use travel agents, but was told to do so for this trip) emailed us that itinerary update. So our time in the lounge was reduced to slugging back the cappucino and cramming toast into our faces and then tromping on down to the gate.
Where the boarding time was listed as 9:15. Huh? We checked the flight numbers, they were the same (and then we wandered over to the desk, where they took away our boarding passes and gave us ones in the snotty section of the plane where they actually feed you. We were somewhat mollified, even though it was 9:30 before we boarded. And 10:15 before the plane left the gate.)
Regina is a three carousel airport. At any given time, there is perhaps one plane to unload. At our time, there was just our weenie little CRJ to unload. The CRJ is just a wee thing. So wee that, while it takes a good half hour before the bags start to show, it is in fact too wee to take all of the bags the passengers checked - and the priority tagged bags were left in Toronto. Not so the many much bigger and much heavier bags of exchange students travelling home, but I am quibbling. And I'm probably quibbling too when I tell you it took another 45 minutes to file our stupid missing baggage claim. But we were very clear! Bags to be delivered to our temporary address, here is my cell phone number! There were three or four flights after ours, we were optimistic. And who doesn't enjoy spending an entire Sunday in aiports? The only sad part was, of course, that this was keeping us from exploring the dramatic scenery around Regina, but it really is a tough choice, airport or prairie.
So. Two more flights landed while we were toddling about our new digs and cabbing it to Dave's house and drinking many pisco sours, and then some more landed. And I got on the hated cellyphone and called the number on our claim, to find out where the bags are! After all, we were in our plane clothes, and we had a meeting the next day. But the call centre you reach when you call the claims department is the telephone equivalent of using the on-line form: useless. Utterly useless, actually. All evening, they assured me that my bag was "in transit". Even after I pointed out that the last flight for the day had landed in Regina already. No, no, the bag is still coming, they will call you when they have it. At 11:30 p.m., we bought toothbrushes...
Next day, at lunch (after being highly entertained by watching Gwen give her talk in a sweatsuit! handing out imaginary copies of the paper I was supposed to deliver!), I got the call centre equivalent of eff off: our computers are down, we cannot help you, goodbye. I got a little cranky at that point (ok, there were several points, I kept calling back to terrorize them and demand to speak to someone useful, but they are united in their uselessness pact. Because while they work for Air Canada, I'm sure they aren't Air Canada, ma'am. Much like my Toronto Star experience, though this call centre is in India from the sounds of the accents).
By 6 p.m. - now 31 hours since my flight had landed - I am still met by uselessness. Better still, they cannot put me through to the baggage claims counter at the Regina airport. Because ma'am, we do not have that number. And calling all the Air Canada numbers I can find, I always end up at the we cannot help you ma'am ladies. Sigh. Pissed off and smelly, that was me. And tired of slamming the phone down, no no, I wanted to vent my frustrations in person!
So we went to the airport. Where our luggage was peacefully sitting, tagged with our names and temporary address, and the flight number it came in on. The internet tells me that this flight landed a mere four hours after my original flight, and the luggage was feeling lost and rejected for a full 26 hours after that point. So, despite my delight at being reunited with a change of clothes (and, sigh, copies of the paper I needed at 9 a.m.), I expressed some mild frustrations to the baggage guy. Who expressed his very low customer service quotient, and claimed that they couldn't call us because the system was down and thus they did not have my phone number.
I, of course, failed to point out that:
1. the bags were tagged with information that they could only have from the same file as contained the phone number.
2. we asked that the bags be delivered right away, not that they call, and there was a porter on duty the entire time.
3. the system was most definitely not down during the seven hours between arrival of my bag and toothbrush buying, as evidenced by the call centre runaround but ma'am your luggage is in transit game.
4. Air Canada uniforms are ugly and the snacks in the Regina self-service lounge are woefully inadequate.
Yeah. By #4, I was totally getting off track anyway. I went home and changed my clothes and drank some Chilean red wine.
(And when I came back today, the Toronto Star call centre that calls on behalf of the Toronto Star but does not represent the Toronto Star once again called, and had left me a message offering free Monday to Friday delivery! Because "I want you to stop sending me any and all papers" clearly sounds like "I need to think about it but I'm very interested, please call back six or seven times until I have finished thinking!")
p.s. yeah, I know all about the packing important things in the carry-on and flying carry-on only, but carry-on only is a major pain in the ass in CRJs where the overhead bins are big enough to hold a toothbrush and, if you're lucky, a trial-size tube of toothpaste, and not much else, and I am disorganized and don't have an underwear compartment in my briefcase, ok? And we shared the red wine with several of the people who were in the be-sweatsuited, invisible paper'd talk, so it's all good. Because, upon discovering the lack of luggage, we did take a cab to the liquor store and stocked up on $141 of good-will-generating liquids - planning ahead skills that most of our colleagues did not possess...
Ok, go to your liquor cabinet and pull out your bar guide, should you have one. Look under "p" - do you see pisco sour? If yes, you have a better bar guide than the ones I've been looking at. And you should reward yourself with a pisco sour.
If you google pisco sour, you will likely find several recipes: at least, Gwen and I did. And our pisco sour attempts were fun and tasty, but they did not taste like the drinks we sucked back in Chile. Thus, when Bernardo excused himself to spend some time with the blender, Gwen and I eagerly followed for a lesson.
Step 1 in the Bernardo Pisco Lesson: assemble ingredients: lemons (or, better yet, key limes), sugar (plain white refined sugar), pisco (if lacking pisco, substitute grappa, but tell no-one), eggs, and ice. Step 2: apply some pressures to the lemons as you roll them around, to make the juicing easier. Juice them. You need lots of lemon juice. Count the number of people who are hanging out in the kitchen, mutliply by three, and perhaps you will come close in the lemons required count...
Next step (I have already lost count of the step numbering): Take the pisco and put it in the blender. You need about the same volume of pisco as lemon juice. Before putting the pisco in the blender, though, make sure that the bottom seal is nice and tight, otherwise, the precious pisco may leak all over the counter and that would be a waste. Go and 
crush some ice. You can do this in the blender, but not if it's a not-so-strong plastic blender, because then, instead of pisco on the counter, you will have pisco throughout the kitchen. Bernardo has empirically verified this, just like we empirically verified the counter spillage. If no heavy duty blender, crush the ice to a fine snow-like consistency in someone's food processor. You need as much crushed ice as you have lemon juice.
Run the blender to mix the ice and pisco. Add the lemon juice. Blend. Then, start adding the sugar, a bit at a time. You want almost as much sugar, total, as you have lemon juice (by volume), but keep tasting. This part is fun. Gwen and I were very good at it. Finally, take an egg, knock a hole in its end, and dump the egg white (but not the yolk) into the blender. Blend till frothy. Start next batch, because by this time, the people in the kitchen will be pushing their glasses at you...
There, that's the pisco recipe: 1 part pisco, 1 part ice, 1 part lemon juice. Just less than 1 part sugar. I egg white (we used one for about 6 cups of pisco sour). If making a Peruvian pisco sour, you also need some bitters. If making pisco sour with a Chilean, you will need some more pisco, because after he pronounces it perfect and finished, he pours more pisco into the blender.
I don't have cable tv. That has never bothered me before. But now, now I must have access to a network I have never even heard of!
I must watch some reality tv! On the W Network.
Come on... if *your* brother told you he was on a reality documentary television show called The Single Girl Diaries would you not respond with:
1. eek
2. can I watch it?
3. can I make fun of it?
4. is it a secret?
So, I haven't seen it, and I'm not allowed to make fun of it on-line until I've seen it, but he will provide me with the media file once he has it so I can see. But then? then I'm allowed to make fun of it.
Yeah...
eek.
Melissa is the queen of solo adventures. Sometimes, though, she'll announce that she's ok with company - but she makes it 
clear in the invitation that "this is a paddle, not a piddle" trip. Me, I'm a bit of a piddler... But I was also antsy as anything to spend time in my kayak, and I think Melissa is interesting and cool and knows lots of stuff that I don't, and it follows that I must consequently attempt to stalk her. So, rather than retreat into my piddling chickenshit but it might be too hard attitude, I countered her "let's drive to the Bay, paddle for 40km, with a hike in the middle, and then drive home" email with "how about we do an overnighter?" And she went for it. Yay!
Besides being tougher and fitter, Melissa is also more organized than I am. And she gets up earlier. So she drove up to our first choice of put-in, Pete's Place in Massassauga, while I was still piddling around at home, trying to get my stuff together. And then, when I was no further than Barrie, she called me and reported that Pete's Place is all locked up, we'd try for Snug Harbour. Fine with me. The islands we normally visit out of Snug have started to feel like home: the Snakes, the McCoys, the Pancakes, Franklin, the Minks, Sandy and Bateaux Islands... I think I could do a three or four day 
trip here without a map, even. But I had the Parry Sound map with me in any case.
Of course, it's also pretty hard to make a trip report in this area sound even remotely interesting. We were headed to the Snakes - to a site that I've camped on more than any other single site on the Bay. I think I've been there at least once every year since I started paddling. Last year alone, I stayed here for five nights (on three separate trips). And still, 
this time, it felt like a first. This trip was, after all, the first time I paddled on the Bay when it still had ice cubes floating in it. It was the first time I camped on one of the islands when there is still snow. It was also one of the few times I didn't bring any beer (see above point on lack of organization on my part) and it was a waste, given the beer-cooling snowbanks!
Miraculously enough, Melissa had never been to the Snakes, and thus failed to notice that we only paddled a bit more than 5 km to get there and happily frolicked about in the snow while her wetsuit hung on a tree. I kept expecting her to say we'd get back into the boats and do another 35 km and come back to the site later, but no! She got out her camera (in the list of things she does better than I do is also photography - I dick around with a little point and shoot. 
She could publish a coffee table book. I even thought of bringing the digital SLR just so I could have a rival shutter click going instead of the cheesy pretend shutter click sound my little A95 could make if I asked it to, but I didn't), and we hiked around the island. We found an old beer bottle that we used for goofy pictures (please note, we would not a) drink such bad beer; b) take beer in bottles). And, Melissa being more dedicated than I am, she picked up garbage the entire way (thus effectively guilting me into poking through old fire rings to 
get out foil bits and glass shards too). There is not nearly enough bush on the Snakes to create the deadfall needed to support as many fires as there are yahoos who show up to have them, thus some of the afore-mentioned yahoos have started cutting live trees. Even though, a few hundred feet back in the bush, there are dead trees they could have chopped up if they *really* needed to have a bonfire. This makes my blood boil, particularly since the firepits they obviously used to burn this wood are now filled with their leftovers.)
We also discovered the drawback of snow: if there is a critter on the island, you will see its prints. We couldn't explain these, but rationalized them away pretty neatly in the interests of a good night's sleep. The island is small. It is 5km open crossing to the nearest other island. It is the last one out there before endless open water, so it's not a stopping off point to somewhere with better habitat. Yikes. Upside of the snow? Snow angels. On a paddling trip. Neat, huh?
It was a cool feeling, likely being the first people to camp on the island this year. Realistically, this was probably the first 
weekend it was even possible, since ice-out just happened. Even more realistically, most of the people we know will tell you they have no desire to camp when there is still snow or kayak when the water is just above freezing. And at this early time of year, there is a good chance that when you go to paddle back, and you decide to take a detour to the south around the Pancakes because you 
can't just paddle five or so kilometers and expect to escape Melissa's piddling designation, that the wind is wickedly strong out of the north. Which means that, if that were to happen, you'd face a tough and somewhat chilly slog back to Snug Harbour, and be really glad you ate that extra granola bar at breakfast. I'm just saying, that's what could happen.
But whining about how unexpectedly high-energy the paddling was on the way out, that probably puts me in the piddler category. Ah well, at least I got to piddle around outside in April, and it was fun.
Canada's new environment minister is one Rona Ambrose. Minister Ambrose is labouring under the impression that there is such a thing as a "realistic" emissions target for climate change mitigation - ie. we're not prepared to put our money where our mouth is to meet the commitments we agreed to under Kyoto (but hey! that was a Liberal government! wich Ms. Ambrose has no affiliation with! The prospect of Kyoto dying at the Conservatives hands is only too real), and expecting us to make any sorts of compromises in that direction is unrealistic. Thus, we just scale back our expectations! Isn't this how mediocrity is bred in the first place, by lowering the bar until we all make it because none of us will even fit under it?
Unfortunately, the rhetoric of the nay-sayers is getting rather silly. Consider, if you will, this gem of a quote from the British Telegraph (online):
Despite claims to the contrary, there is no consensus among climate scientists on the relative importance of the various causes of global climate change, they wrote."'Climate change is real' is a meaningless phrase used repeatedly by activists to convince the public that a climate catastrophe is looming and humanity is the cause. Neither of these fears is justified.
"Global climate changes all the time due to natural causes and the human impact still remains impossible to distinguish from this natural 'noise'."
Well. Ok then. "60 leading scientists" say that, among them five Brits. Too bad the story doesn't tell me who these "leading" scientists are. See, I do know a little bit about the climate change community. I know for instance, that the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change (IPCC) is comprised of a whole lot more than 60 leading scientists, and that they've done substantially more than write a letter. Working Group I (of three) is all about the science of climate change. Have a look at the list of co-ordinating lead authors, lead authors and review editors associated with WG I (and each chapter has a range of contributing authors, and is committed to reviewing all the relevant, peer-reviewed scientific evidence that applies). They're currently very busy putting together a draft of the Fourth Assessment Report. And guess what?
There's pretty strong consensus among these scientists that anthropogenic climate change is an issue. Consider, for example, Schneider and Lane's quick summary of the issue, including this point:
In the past few centuries, atmospheric carbon dioxide has increased by more than 30 percent. The reality of this increase is undeniable, and virtually all climatologists agree that the cause is human activity, predominantly the burning of fossil fuels.
(Schneider and Lane, by the way, cite their sources).
So.
Me, I don't like to get hung up on the mitigation issue. It's incredibly important, it's not the only strategy available to us, it's not either/or. "I will be vigorously defending the taxpayers of Canada and Canada's position about approaching climate change with a realistic and effective plan," Ms. Ambrose tells us. That's nice. I'd rather you defended the environment, Madam Minister of the Environment.
I'll give you a much more realistic quote:
"We can't ignore mounting scientific evidence on important issues such as climate change. The science may be provisional. All science is provisional. But if you see a risk you have to take precautionary action just as you would in any other aspect of business." -- Sir John Browne
Sir Browne is the Chairman of British Petroleum. A company that even the Conservatives of the world must acknowedge has done well: as his CNN (now there's conservative) Profile states, John Browne "has taken BP from near obscurity to the world's No. 3 oil company, buying competitors like Amoco and inspiring other execs to copy his formula for blending environmentalism and strong earnings".
That's it, isn't it. It's not business vs. the environment, taxpayers vs. meeting commitments. Flipside of the same coin, no? How will it not lead to economic impact if climate changes. You could consult some of the IPCC Working Group II documents to get at some impacts, adaptations and vulnerabilities.
The US media was pretty quick to say increased tropical storm frequency has nothing to do with global climate change last August as New Orleans was flooding, oh no. Even though, you know, ocean surface temperature. These so-called "freak" climatic events are part and parcel of this. Wake up and smell the greenhouse gases.
And yet, our happy taxpayer representing government is treating the world like a choose your own adventure novel.
"We're very depressed," said John Bennett, senior policy adviser to the Sierra Club of Canada, a prominent environmental group.
What he said.
Dear Toronto Star subscription department –
A couple of years ago, I got suckered into your weekend delivery option. I didn’t actually want the paper delivered every Saturday and Sunday. You see, the walk to the end of the driveway is about the same as the walk to the corner gas station. Furthermore, I am rarely home on weekends, thus the paper gets read by my landlord if at all (and even when I am home, half the time one of the horse ladies has already picked it up and hand-delivered it to my landlord’s door, and I don’t have the heart to complain about this since he already complains about the Star littering the end of the driveway when I am not here).
But, two years ago, you had such an eager young man working the grocery store, and the same thing happened to me as the thing that makes housewives buy $1500 vacuums: if you’re working the grocery store selling newspaper subscriptions, you *might* be putting yourself through school. Not only that, but my carefully planned and executed excuse (“oh, I’m outside your delivery area”) didn’t work. And I probably should have read the fine print, the part about how it would automatically renew itself after 15 weeks and unless I did something as annoying as actually calling you folks, it would simply keep showing up at the end of the driveway. But I didn’t.
So imagine my delight when, a year ago, one of your fine people called me and asked me how he could help me manage my subscription better. He wanted to offer me a few weeks of free Monday to Friday delivery. I wanted him to help me cancel the subscription. He explained that he was not authorized to do it, just to add more delivery days to it. I thanked him, and asked him to please never send me another paper except the minimum that I had unwittingly signed up for. We went our separate ways.
A few weeks ago, of course, the blue bags started showing up at the end of the lane every day again. Now I have incurred the wrath of the landlord by filling the blue box far too quickly. And I read precisely as many papers as I did before this: usually, none. And tonight, Betty from a call centre in Atlantic Canada called me to chat with me about my subscription. I chirpily told her that yes, indeed, there was something she could do for me. She brightly told me that she wanted to offer me *free* Monday to Friday delivery of the paper. I equally brightly told her that I’d rather the recycling was taken away, not delivered, and I wanted no papers at all, please cancel. She testily told me that she was not the subscription department, she just wanted to sign me up for weekday delivery. I equally testily wanted to know why she could modify my subscription to add papers, but not reduce it. How about Saturday only deliver, could she do that? I might even have thrown something in about since we were currently having dinner together, or rather, I was eating, and she had timed her call well.
Betty wasn’t impressed with me. She rather angrily told me that she was calling *on behalf of* the Toronto Star, she did not *represent* the Toronto Star, and she could give me a number to call about my subscription. Since I had already wasted some of my valuable time chatting with Betty in Atlantic Canada, I didn’t feel the need to turn around and dial some more. I did *69 Betty, though, and discovered that her call centre was the source of about 30 hang-ups on my answering machine recently. I’m so happy I have an unlisted number.
So, I’ve been busy lately, and I’d been thinking I’d give the weekend subscription a break, and maybe sometimes I’d pick up the paper at the store. Except, if I were honest, I’d have to admit that sometimes I do go to the store for the paper, even on weekends, and then I buy the Globe and Mail. And they’ve never even offered me free Monday to Friday delivery. Or sent shiny young men to my grocery store.
Perhaps next you can send schoolchildren through the subdivision across the road, selling subscriptions as a fundraiser for school. But when I fell for that, at least the magazine stopped coming after my initial contract expired.
Sincerely,
The cranky barn troll
1(a): If you had the kind of cash that allowed you to build a waterfront home in the Golden Horseshoe, would you build a fortress-like retaining wall and make sure your lawn is uniform glory with nary a shrub to break it up?
1(b) Assuming yes, is this the view you would want?
2. Would you rent an apartment in one of these towers?
3. Did they change the sign when the number changed?
4. Do you want to know where this door goes too? (Do you see the door?)
5. Why is it ok to boat over top of it, but not anchor?
And, a question triggered by turboglacier's comment:
6. Would Sheila Copps have done us greater service as Canadian Heritage Minister if she'd taken this WWII era warship on a cruise along the lakeshore and wiped out eyesores along the way? (See 1(a) )
--
Yeah, uneventful paddle on Burlington Bay today, except for the part where it was super fun and I saw a bunch of things I've not seen before. And I've got that summer weekend feeling where my skin is a little bit sore from windburn (though only on my face), I'm a bit tired, and there are piles of wet gear on my floor - a mess to start the new week.
Everything is as it should be.
...it is a condition of such a trip that you entrust yourself, stripped of your worldly goods, to nature. Canoe and paddle, blanket and knife, salt pork and flour, fishing rod and rifle, that is about the extent of your wealth. To remove all useless and material baggage... (P.E. Trudeau, "Exhaustion and Fulfillment, the Ascetic in a Canoe" (1944)
We are a nation descended from the hardy wilderness travelling voyageurs (we like to say, even though only a small proportion is actually descended form them. Most of us derive from hardy immigrant stock of different lineage. But it's part of our mythology. Every one of us could tell you what a Hudson's Bay Blanket looks like, and every kid who's ever been to camp in Ontario can sing a voyageur song or two.) The whole voyageur thing contributes to our feeling *so* Canadian when we get into our canoes and leave it all behind. For me, kayaking serves much the same function (and good chunks of the Ontario voyageur route are more easily done in a kayak). But a lot has changed since the days of those tough, singing, human transport mules ("woyageurs died young" - James Raffan, 2003), and a lot has changed since the days a young future prime minister paddled to the Arctic.
Because my biggest cash outlay on worldly goods? If I were to group all the money I've ever spent into categories, what do you think would have the biggest dollar value attached to it? Not cars. Not plane tickets (and they're not material goods). Outdoor gear. Oh yes. In the course of my adult life, I have purchased two kayaks (sold one), one canoe (cheap), four tents, five sleeping bags, countless drybags, several paddles, three white gas stoves... and so on. Consider this: I'm 34. I finished grad school round 1 in 1995. It took me a year before I got past the whole mental block about spending any money (I had been a full time student for six years, and I graduated debt-free. That requires that sort of mindset). So the gear accumulation really only started in 1996.
But outdoors equipment? Not cheap. And oh so necessary. 
Today I paddled! The winter tires are still on my car. It was all of six degrees, and the water was considerably colder. And yet, at the end of the paddle, Kevin the drysuit advocate and I were carrying our boats up, and we waded into the surf to rinse the sand off them, and I felt the need to burble about how much I loved being dry! I wouldn't have been paddling today in the days of wool sweaters and leather boots. No way. But here was my wardrobe today:
Synthetic underwear by Patagonia
Expedition weight microfleece tights, Combi
Polypropylene liner socks, MEC
Neoprene socks, MEC
Water shoes, Columbia
Drypants, Kokatat
Polypropylene base layer long undershirt, Hot Chillys
Expedition weight wool blend long undershirt, Stanfields
100-weight fleece sweater, Columbia
Double tunnel semi-dry top, Immersion Research
Acrylic toque, Sierra Designs
Windblocker toque, The North Face
Pogies, Chimo
Quick mental math: the replacement value of that outfit alone is over $600, and we haven't even started on the boat and accessories (and the roofrack! and the kayak cradles!) Today was a daytrip. Sometimes we wonder why there are so few people in their 20s in our kayak club. I couldn't have afforded this hobby at 25.
And it's worth it, in the end. I'd been bugging Kevin to go paddling with me (not "if the weather is good" or "if it's warm", just, let's paddle on Saturday). Then, Bert sent out an invite, all those who want to paddle meet at Burlington Beach at 11 a.m. on Saturday, RSVP. The time it took me to R(merci) was about as long as it took gmail to notify me that I had a new message. I was excited!
And I was still excited when I saw the surf coming into the beach. It was just *little* surf. I momentarily forgot that I am a *big* chicken, distracted as I was by the whole drywear phenomenon. It wasn't until Kevin started giving me advice on the surf launch that I realized, oh... right... I suck at this!
But I don't suck at admitting I suck! And I'd already said "absolutely, when the water is warm" when Kevin said something like "we should practice side surfing on this beach" (do I even know what side surfing is? absolutely! I just can't do it, ok? Hence "practice"). Thus, having already responded enthusiastically to an idea where I could demonstrate my essential fowl essence again, I had no shame about interrupting Kevin's surf launch coaching with "how about I get into the kayak right here and you push me in?". And that's what I did. My skirt was done up, my hands were cosily gripping the paddle shaft within my pogies, and when there was a big wave, Kevin pushed! Bone dry, my cockpit! Great surf launch!
The paddling was glorious. The swells were much bigger than you'd expect on the Great Lakes, and it only took me about 20 paddle strokes (coincidentally, the 20 that took me through the surf zone) to be happy about big waves.
We paddled east, primarily because we wanted the wind and waves behind us coming back. Lake Ontario is ok, but much of the shoreline is mansions. So I looked at mansions. There are worse ways to spend a Saturday than paddling along in bright sunshine, looking at mansions in Burlington, really.
This was Sarka's first open water paddle since one terrible day in the Charlottes, so I thought it was a wise choice that she and Joe turned back after an hour or so in order not to overdo it (an aside: Joe took pictures, and said "I'll be uploading these". But I don't know Joe's last name, never mind his webspace). I suspect both of them wanted to keep paddling, though.
Bert decreed lunchtime soon after that, and we pulled into a tiny piece of public land. It was a surf landing, though the surf wasn't big (this, however, did not stop me from picking precisely the bit of beach that had rocks. "You gotta watch where you surf", Kevin said later. "Dude, I know," I thought "if it wasn't for six inches and a lot of luck, I'd be walking back to my car right now!". But I said nothing. Because he was right.)
Lunch was a wee bit chilly. I was perfectly warm and cosy in my kayak. My hands were toasty, my bum was dry, my core temperature was that perfect balance between so warm you sweat and so cold you want an extra layer - that is, just right. But out of the boats at lunch, we noticed just how cold that wind is. I wanted my mittens. Doug hopped around and then did pushups to get warm. We didn't linger.
This time, with even littler surf, I thought I'd try it. I pushed my boat back in, near but not on top of the rocks, but Kevin seemed to think that was a bad spot. After my boat swamped, I was inclined to agree with him, and he helped me empty it out and then pushed me in again. I am such a wimp. Or maybe I'm smart: Mike hurt his shoulder on that launch, after all. It is much less dangerous to sit in one's kayak like a precious princess and let one's friends do the heavy lifting.
We kept paddling a bit more, but Mike's shoulder started really bugging him, so we turned around. With the waves behind us (the wind had shifted to south), it didn't take long to get back. And the little surf was still plenty big at the landing spot. Fortunately, Burlington Beach is all soft sand, no rock danger. I stayed out beyond the surf zone, memorizing Kevin's advice (if you don't want to be in the breaking wave, just stay straight and backpaddle til it passes you. If you're gonna surf it, you need to do a high brace). I watched him go in, and pull his kayak up. Then I hopped on a wave (ok ok, a wave grabbed my boat) and managed to stay perpendicular to it - and one wave carried me almost all the way in, and then, when I was in less than a foot of water, 
Kevin pulled my bow to land and I got out - no swamping. No terror. No independence either. Sigh.
And I was dry! and toasty warm! And I love my kayak.
Paddling season is open.
Tonight, I left work with a mission: gear store. I had a list, it contained one item. Dry top. And, within fifteen seconds of entering the store, I was wriggling past a dreadlocked blonde chatting with one of the store lackeys, casually leaned up against the rack of drytops. While the dreadlocked blonde who was at least 12 years younger than I am chatted with the store clerk who was a good decade my junior, I excused-me'd my way to pawing the racks. The blonde graciously moved about half an inch, allowing me access to one more item than before.
I can't really blame her: you see, she was gathering information. From what I heard - which was the entire conversation, seeing as, once again, they did not move out of the way - she was about to embark on a treeplanting adventure. The slightly older store clerk had done so in the past, and was enthusiastically giving older-and-wiser advice to her protege, all the while ignoring the customer who was fingering $450 items. Because nothing says customer service like ignoring people who are shopping.
They continued, as did I. Drytops have latex seals. I am terrified of latex seals. The ones at the wrists I find difficult to negotiate, the ones at the neck I think will strangle me before I can squeeze out a mangled "help!". And, normally, I want the obsequious store clerks who are intent on telling you something looks good on you to go away, but not when dealing with the wrath of latex. I struggled and cussed and wanted to ask questions - but didn't want to be impolite and interrupt (I'd so much rather bitch about it on the web later, you know). Thing is, though, the store was dead, and there were all sorts of lackeys, and none of them were particularly interested in the torso that extended beyond where a head should be, looking much like I normally do when I am putting the duvet cover on the duvet and it's not perfectly straight and thus I feel the need to stick my whole body in and investigate and get tangled up.
At one point, I was close to panicking, and I navigated to the treeplanting conversation by sound, and squeaked an oh so polite, excuse me, do you work here, can you help me, I'm stuck. A swift and friendly yank, I was free again - and the discussion pontification of how much more comfortable you will be with a fleece blanket as well as a sleeping bag and how the food isn't really all that good in the camp continued. And I continued shopping, even more terrified of the latex. And I wouldn't try on any more items. By now, the treeplanting conversation had ended, and lackey girl swanned off to chat with lackey boy over in shoes or something. I figured I would not be able to make my way to help if I got stuck again.
I suspect my fear of latex is not as uncommon as I thought: there was an entire line of semi-drytops. They were "semi" dry because the neck gasket had been replaced with a wide, snug neoprene turtleneck. I thought about it, and concluded acceptable compromise: the trickle of water getting past my neck seal is not going to be significantly more than accumulated perspiration (breathable shmeathable, you sweat in all paddling jackets as far as I'm concerned), and when I dump, my head - buoyed by my PFD - pops right out anyway. The important seals are at the waist (a long snug stretch neoprene inner tunnel, and an outer tunnel that velcroes nice and tight - meaning I have neoprene going down inside my paddling pants, I can cinch the neoprene waist seal, and then put the outer tunnel over top. Putting it outside my sprayskirt wouldn't be nearly as effective, so I won't) and of course the latext wrist and ankle torture. I'll be fine.
And on Saturday, I'll be paddling for a few hours. Hurrah.
Oh, and the treeplanting expert girl was all smiles and approval when she saw the fleece that had leapt* at me and demanded to be taken home: that she thought was a good product, and she extolled its virtues (I liked that it's fuzzy and pink...). Which makes me think her oh-so-helpful salesmanship in the paddling section was perhaps because she doesn't know a drytop from a raincoat... (or she's rude. Take your pick.)
(Some people enjoy the whole shopping thing. Imagine that.)
*you have no idea how much I struggled with the past perfect of "to leap". Lept? Leaped? Leapt? Wictionary claims both of the latter two are acceptable.
For the last few months, and continuing until the end of April, my life has been not much more than my job (and the occasional ski obsessive interlude). The job is not going away (that I know of, anyway), but some big worrying things have been resolved (our fiscal year-end was last Friday) and more will be out of the way by the end of this month. And then! Then I shall Have A Life!
So, because I don't want to walk out of the airport at the beginning of May and say, now what... I have made plans (and then, when some of them tanked, I regrouped, and made other plans). So, in May, I will - ice-out cooperating - chase the stern of Sam's kayak on Lake Opeongo. Then, I will Do My Part and hang out at some paddling something or other show to meet and greet prospective kayakers. Then there's an I don't know yet weekend, and after that I will play chicken with the Madawaska River, soon followed by more flowerpottering on the Bruce (my botanical thirst was not entirely satisfied last year!) and then I shall Do My Part v.2 and paddle with new-to-me people (this version of DMP I am looking forward to very much), and then I shall launch myself into the cold waters of the Bay and practice rescues at Ron's annual rescue weekend, and then it's time for Cape Croker and some rendezvousing with all these other paddlers, and then... then it's July! Whee. It took sitting down with my calendar last night, planning for Life After April, to realize... wait a minute... when this is done, I will not be saying now what at all...
Now, I just have to get through April.
I'm glad it snowed today. There's some pathetic fallacy for you.