row while the bow retrieved. Barring the new soggy nature of the hat, it was successful. Kayakers-1, The Mighty Tuckahoe- 0. We got our bearings and rowed with slow progress looking for signs of fauna. Tall grass and reeds lined the black water runway while whistling a tune which was to be our score for the day. Turkey buzzards circled above with watchful eyes as mine were fixed on the grassy banks until they caught glimpse of motion seemingly synchronized to the grass-roots score. Cocking my camera, I froze and directed my company’s eyes in the direction of the show. Brown fur just grazed the surface of the water. What followed was the first of many camera misfires: Sleek brown fur sighted. Shoot and miss. No picture. Stream-lined, brown, furry body frolicking in the water like a dolphin riding a wave. No photographic opportunity. Small brown furry head with stubby ears, black eyes, a dog-like nose and whiskers sighted. Gone before my finger hit the camera trigger. “I see you river otter,” I kept saying. But he was camera shy and an elusive fellow. Slippery weasel - literally. We hugged the bank where we saw the otter and had one more sighting of him. We got the feeling he too, like the current and the wind, was toying with us. This was a game of hide and seek and it was not one we would win. No longer undefeated, we decided to stop keeping score and turned off into a break in the tall grass. Though we turned out of sight from the wind, we coasted forward without having to add muscle. The current assisted us in breaking the inertia. Though our friend, the otter, remained hidden from lens, our off-path excursion unveiled dwellings belonging to another wetland occupant. Lodges built of reeds and mud punctuated the trip through the hidden grassland. An entire village of muskrat lodges emerged from the banks of the grasslands. The water yielded to our oars with little
resistance in the hidden maze of this grassland. Contemplating turning around, we decided instead to look for thoroughfare. We came upon a humble, weathered, handcrafted fishing dock. Off in the distance cedar trees made their appearance again; they stood tall, dignified and watchful over the wetlands. We reached a cul-de-sac, turned around, and did the quickstep back to the reeds that never tired of their song. Once we turned out of the area of hidden muskrat dwellings and back onto the creek to
make our way back, we were met with considerable winds that seemed amused by advancing us into the grassy banks. We contested by rowing on opposite sides of the kayak and in crew fashion with power strokes; we charged on by forceful, continuous and rhythmic blows to the water. Once under the bridge, we were surprised to see white water which caused me to put my oar down and stare. It began to whirl us about like a theme park ride. Fighting the potential to capsize as we came around the marina, we again answered to the forces of
nature thrown at us by tapping into our old crew skills and retorted to wind and current by making it back to nature’s dock. The laughing gulls were no longer there which proved to be remiss on their part because our exit was beleaguered by amusement. The moon, having grown tired of pulling on the tide all day, released its grip and the ebb that ensued left us with the absence of a ramp and in its place an aqueous mud solution. We rowed up to the sloping bank and I took one small step toward a patch of grass believing it would be stable enough for me to step and drag the kayak up to dry land. Such an efficient exit was not to be. The muck swallowed my leg and was not kind enough to spit it or my flip-flop back out. My black Reef© flip-flop, circa 1992, was gone, fathoms deep in the muck. A flip-flop that has seen countless oceans, beaches and wetlands would now become vaulted in the banks of the Tuckahoe forever. It would not go without its partner. For when my right leg was freed, the left leg launched forward inland and it was as if the muck opened up and said “ahhh.” Another flip-flop down and now the pair will be fossilized there together as pairs should be. My lower limbs looking fossilized themselves emerged with a mud mask and marched on while my first mate navigated the muck without losing her sole. The kayak adventure varied greatly from all previous trips but similarly emulated a dream. The dream, not having been the same as any before, also did not read the same backward as forward as is implied by the palindrome name. On any given kayak trip on the Tuckahoe river, the laughing gulls could have been herons, the turkey buzzards could have been bald eagles, the otters could have been turtles, the muskrat lodges could have been trees with roosting egrets, low tide could have been high tide, the hat could have been an oar and the flip flops, well the flip flops could have been anyone’s.