Dad of All Trades, Master of None

Domesticated, Not Demasculinized

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Posts Tagged ‘OBX’

Kayak Story: The War and Peace version.

Posted by doatmon on August 25, 2009

I am going to break my own rule of no more than one post per day while I’m beginning this blog.  I am first going to post the kayak story for those who have asked.  I don’t think the story is worth its own post, but I have been asked.  So I’ll bury it as the first of two posts today.  The second will follow-up on yesterday’s response-generating diatribe.

The kayak story.

So a few weeks ago, I was in the Outer Banks with my entire family.  Part of the reason was for my Coke and I to renew our vows and part was pure vacation.  As you may have guessed by now, physical activity isn’t exactly part of my daily routine.  So any time I show any interest whatsoever in something cardio in nature, my wife and her physically-conscious family jump on my attempt (no matter how brief) to reduce my, um, bulky frame.

Lately, my obsession interest has been kayak fishing.  I think the concept is brilliant and something I desperately want to explore.  I consider the out of doors to be the closest I will ever get to any sort of deity and as so many have acknowledged, when it comes to boating and fishing, there’s nothing that gets you closer than kayaking.  You’re sitting inches above the water, not leaving any carbon footprint whatsoever and can glide silently across any body of water so as to not disturb the heron, otter or topless sunbather you may be trying to observe.

Sounds perfect, eh?

Well, I have neither a kayak nor access to a kayak and before I spent any money I wanted to test my prowess at both paddling and multi-tasking with a fishing rod in my possession.  Now, the real kayak fishers (really? Fishers?  Is that the best we can do? I shy away from fisherman for obvious reasons, but refuse to use fisherpersons for equally obvious albeit different reasons) use long kayaks with rod holders, GPS, depth finders, refrigerators and bidets all loaded on.  But for purposes of my test run, I would just have a rented kayak and a paddle and a PFD that was unlikely to be used.  My chest is bulky enough thank you.  The rest would just be myself and my trusty, 5.5 foot ultralight rod.

My brother-in-law who is an avid kayaker brought his down to the beach and went with me to select my mode of transportation for the week.  Upon walking into the store, I immediately gravitated to a certain brand for which I had read many positive reviews.  It was the sit-on-top version of a kayak as opposed to the sit-in version that my B-I-L both had and recommended.  But I had read reviews.  On the internet.  That had to be better than familial experience, right?

We wasted no time getting wet and drove immediately over to Currituck Sound.  This body of water lies between the mainland of North Carolina and the barrier islands known as the Outer Banks.  It rarely, if ever, gets above six feet and is for my money among the most beautiful bodies of water I have ever seen.  What a perfect place to kayak, eh?  We set off, sexy water shoes and all, at a brisk pace.  Well, my B-I-L was at a brisk pace.  I was too, it just wasn’t straight.  With a bottle of water and small tackle box strapped to the back with the PFD, my pole resting in my lap and the paddle flailing about in my already weakening arms I was proceeding in a zig-zag pattern that could be at best described as a tacking maneuver and at worst the line an intoxicated Canada Goose might take to a stray piece of bread.

I eventually straightened myself out and slowly but surely made my way north along the shoreline.  We approached a duck blind set out in the water and it was silently screaming at me to throw a lure in its direction.  So I did.  The kayak wobbled a bit, but I was pleased at my distance and my accuracy.  And if my B-I-L hadn’t paddled up there to see that I had casted in about 4 inches of water, I’m sure I would have caught a fish.

But I was 1-1 in casts without tipping my plastic steed and I was puffing my PFD-free chest.   We paddled out a little further in an attempt to locate deeper water and water devoid of the thick vegetation we found all over our paddles after each stroke.

About 10-15 minutes later we were quite a distance out in the sound and came upon another duck blind.  This one was clearly in deeper water and was veggie-free.  I steadied myself and tossed my shallow-running crank at the structure.  As I did so, the wind kicked up and knocked my cast offline.  I reeled back in quickly, determined to impress my B-I-L with my internet-honed kayak fishing skills.  I launched what was sure to be a brilliant cast…and I’m sure it would have been had I not found myself under water.

The wind had kicked up a little, baby wave and knocked me right over.  Now, this in itself isn’t a HUGE deal.  It happens to the best of us and given the relatively small kayak upon which I had been precariously perched, it’s somewhat surprising it hadn’t happened previously.  But as my butt hit bottom and I launched myself back toward daylight I realized that I wasn’t alone in the kayak and began flailing for my fishing pole.  To no avail.  It was gone.  I tried to feel around with my feet, but the silt and sediment bottom wouldn’t give it up.

My B-I-L paddled over and helped me right my kayak.  I checked my tackle box, bottle of water and rented PFD.  All were fine.  In a stroke of brilliance, I handed my B-I-L my tackle box for safe keeping just in case something freaky like that happened again.  The chances were remote, but without a pole, I certainly didn’t need a tackle box.  I set about the difficult task of mounting a piece of plastic in chest-high water with aquasocks buried in muck.

It took some maneuvering and some upper-body strength I didn’t know I had, but I shimmied myself back aboard, grabbed my paddle from my B-I-L and took two stroke toward shore.  I felt a little wobble but I didn’t give it another thought as I had felt many of those previously.  I gave it a little more thought as I was resurfacing, however.  One wave and I was back in the water.  Odd.  Infuriating.  But not debilitating.  My ego was bruised, but thankfully that was all.  I grabbed my paddle and hefted my considerable girth back on the culprit.

I never made it.

I had barely lifted my feet out of the muck and I was back underwater.  Okay, nothing to do now but laugh.  I mean, this was ridiculous.  I am a little heavy, but come on!  I was more than a little embarrassed, but I will give my B-I-L credit…he never cracked a smile (while I was above water anyway) and dutifully returned my paddle.  Just as he did the next 10-15 times I tried to get in the kayak and ended up in the water after two or fewer strokes of the paddle.

I was no longer amused.

It was at this point that I realized I may never get back into this kayak.  I had lost my bottle of water, but thankfully my PFD was floating, cackling at me after every ill-fated attempt to recover my dignity.  I begged my B-I-L to just go ahead, but he paddled slowly and sometimes in circles waiting for me.  After another few tries, I was simply out of energy and in-able to hide my frustration.  I came to the harsh realization that it wasn’t the paddle that was going to get me back to shore, but my legs.  What else was I to do?

Thankfully my B-I-L took pity on me and left me to wallow in my weight and inability to float.  He became a tiny spec as he paddled for the dock and dry land.

I started walking.

And cursing.

Cursing the kayak, the kayak company and most importantly the store that rented it to me.  How DARE they rent a kayak to a portly person that may or may not be able to get back into said kayak should it tip?  They were going to pay for this.  They were going to give me another kayak, one more sturdily built for today’s American population.  And THEY were going to pay for my post-traumatic stress counseling.

I will readily admit I shouldered some of the blame as I walked.  How could I let myself get so out of shape that I couldn’t even get in a boat that the ESKIMOS invented for God’s sake.  I mean, how many skinny Eskimos have you seen in cartoons?  And those are culturally correct, right?  I convinced myself to diet.  To get my upper body stronger.  It was a turning point in my life.

About halfway back to shore, I looked down to see a blue crab climbing from a plant to my chest.  I did what anyone else would do and screamed like a three-year-old girl and started jumping up and down while he scrambled for a foot-hold on my torso.  I managed to fling the SOB into the kayak as a souvenir.  At least I would have something for my daughters to see.  That was short-lived as the crustacean chuckled and crawled back to the amber abyss.

It was that abandoning that led me to try again to get in the kayak.  The first attempt went relatively well.  I got in the kayak, righted myself and even got an oar in the water before I started to shake.  I dropped a leg over the side to help even out the wiggling and promptly dumped myself backward.  The kayak flipped over my head and smacked me in the forehead for good measure.  This was progress though, right?  I didn’t barrel-roll.  I flipped heels over head.  I’ll get it next time.

Subsequent attempts did not improve.  I went back to my Bhutan Death March over my Trail of Tears.

I put my head down while I walked, not wanting to see the distance I had yet to go and hoping that nobody would be able to make out my face during this shuffle of shame.  I began daydreaming at this point.  Could I really die out here?  I mean, sure, it was like four feet of water, but I was pretty tired.  And if an infant can drown in six inches of water, surely someone resembling a weeble-wobble could roll to its doom in these depths.  Or what about the Osprey?  Nature’s perfect predators could mistake me for the world’s biggest muskrat and decide to try a new delicacy.  That could happen, right?

Whether it was these thoughts of impending doom or delusions of grandeur, I decided to try again.  This time, I removed my shirt and tied it to the PFD.  Then I tied the PFD to the front hand-hold of the kayak.  This would have to balance out the front and back, right?  That’s what Bear Grylls would do, right?  Feeling confident and casting my life story in my head, I lept up only to watch the world continue to leep as I tumbled backward.

Back to walking.  And walking.  Walking back toward the dock from which I came.

I couldn’t see my B-I-L anymore, but I was sure he was there waiting on me.  Perhaps he had driven home, had dinner and come back, but he was there.  At the dock.  The dock where the wedding was taking place.  Oh CRAP!  I had seen a sign that the dock was going to be closed for a wedding.  The only thing I could imagine worse than this ordeal would be stumbling up to the bridal party, dumping out my aquasocks as the Preacher prepared them for a life in holy matrimony.

Nope.  Unacceptable.  I would HAVE To at least retain my dignity if not my masculinity and urge to kayak.  I shifted course and began to head toward the closest shoreline.  As I got closer, I began collecting golf balls that I found on the bottom.  It was mindless, but helped the minutes pass.  That’s how long I walked.

When I was about 100 yards from shore, I decided I was going to paddle in whether this kayak liked it or not.  After all, I was in about six inches of water.  How could I not sit down in the kayak and at least pole myself in?  So I did.  And the kayak laughed and flipped me once again on my back.  In six inches of water.

It was at that moment I realized this might not be my weight or my lack of athletic ability.  It was the kayak.  It was flawed.  It was purely the kayaks fault.  I puffed out my chest a bit more and walked the last football field to shore.  By this point, my B-I-L had unloaded his kayak back from his car and paddled out to find me.  He got to me just as I was beginning to lift the floating bastard onto shore.  But I couldn’t.  My God.  I was dehydrated.  I didn’t have any strength left.  I had one-foot in the grave.  Heat stroke?  Snake bite that went undetected?  Regardless of the cause, I was clearly losing consciousness.

I mumbled something to my B-I-L and he got out to complete my feat.  Except he couldn’t either.  It was too heavy.  He began looking around the kayak and found a circular plug in the back.  He unscrewed it and a flow that would make Niagara Falls blush began pouring out of the under-side of my kayak.

Did you know that kayaks had a “ballast” compartment?

Yeah, neither did I.

Apparently the convenient “cup holder” in which I had placed my bottle of water and tackle box was actually the entry point for water into the kayak.  Each time I had dumped myself, I had filled the kayak a little more with water.  Subsequent attempts to get into the kayak served to slosh the water from one part of the kayak to another and quickly dump my fat posterior into the water.  It was not my weight that kept me from kayaking that day.  It was my stupidity.  All I had to do was drain the water.  Or not put a tackle box into the plug.

As I sat on the stoop of an abandoned house waiting on my B-I-L and his Nissan Exterra to extricate me from this miserable and humiliating experience, I thought, “I will have to do everything I can to keep this story from getting out to my friends and family.”

Sure, some were going to find out and my B-I-L was going to have to relay it to some for a few belly laughs.  But it was at that moment that I vowed to make the story so long and so boring that NOBODY would be able to read to the end.

And at least in that, if not in kayaking, I have succeeded.

Myself and French Fry in happier times

Here is myself and French Fry in happier times.

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Posted in Being a Daddy | Tagged: , , , , , , , | 3 Comments »

I’m back…and with minimal Brett Favre references

Posted by doatmon on August 18, 2009

I’m back.

But, no, I will not use the obligatory Brett Favre reference.  I’m above that.

I’m just back.

And suffering from monumental writer’s block.

No, that’s not true.  Not writer’s block as much as writer’s motivation block.  I’m sure someone with a PsyD could explain this to me, but I have a real difficult time getting back into something after taking a little break from it.

I never have a hard time starting something.  And even keeping it going isn’t an issue.  Once I’m in a routine, I can drone on mindlessly with the best of them.  But throw a little break in there, whether it’s vacation or an illness or the release of a new content patch in a video game…and I immediately lose all motivation to go back to my routine.  This is what happens with me when I start a workout regimen, a new “diet” and what inevitably happens when I start a new writing project.

And that brings us to this moment.  I cannot remain focused, put together a coherent sentence without getting distracted or even “SQUIRREL!” make clichéd jokes pertaining to recent animated features.  Okay, maybe I can still do the last one.  So maybe that gives me hope for the previous two.

Let’s give it the old college try.

We returned from North Carolina’s Outer Banks on Sunday after almost 10 days away.  I have been going down there since my hairline was intact and Reagan was in office and it oddly never loses its power over me.  I’m not going to try to do it justice at this time, but trust me.  It is a mesmerizing, inspiring and captivating locale.

A few thoughts from the trip:

  • Coke and I renewed our vows on a dock at sunset with (almost) every immediate family member and it just may have meant more to me than our first wedding with hundreds of guests.  And I KNOW the vows did.  How could they not?
  • Minivans are God’s gift to parents.  Really.  I can no longer pretend to have testosterone-induced issues with this boxy yet utilitarian masterpiece of vehicular engineering.  Remove the backseat, load with 33 tons of beach toys, processed food and sunscreen, insert multiple Madeline DVDs and go.  Instant success.  Now, if I could just figure out how to make the soundproof driver’s bubble thing a reality …
  • I had my first conversation with non-family and friends about my decision to stay home with the kids for the time-being.  My brother’s wife and parents came down with us.   It was wonderful getting to know them and to see them enjoying my kids and undoubtedly projecting images of their own grandchildren.  But across the dinner table, I found myself stammering to explain my decision and qualifying it over and over again.  Perhaps it was their initial reaction.  They skipped right over the parenting and the writing and focused immediately on the real estate.  And for me, that’s third on the agenda right now.  I’m chalking it up to generational.  But I’m a little disappointed in myself.  What’s new?  I take self-flagellation to Opus-Dei levels.
  • Sierra Nevada’s Summerfest is the Nectar of the Gods.
  • It is absolutely incredible how much children grow up over a vacation.  I think both Chicken Nugget and French Fry aged five years while we were gone.  I can only imagine it’s the additional time with parents and grandparents and it helped reinforce my confidence in our decision to have one of us home with them full-time now.
  • I am too fat for MANY types of kayaks.  I am not ready to tell this story yet.  But I assure you, it’s a good one.  It involves me, a lost fishing rod, two-mile walk through a large body of water and a chest-to-crab encounter I wish not to relive.
  • I still can’t tan.  Especially the parts of my head that haven’t seen the sun since birth.
  • I took the week off from writing in the theory that it is sort of my job at the moment and that is what I used to do when previously employed.  And yet, unlike with previous employment, it was hard to NOT write.  And now I CAN’T write (well).  Oh, Alanis Morrisette, explain the irony!
  • Hearing your brother’s Mother-In-Law tell your father that he better do SOMETHING with his peanut is priceless.
  • Seeing a fawn 10 feet away and watching a mother otter swim in a salt pond with her baby otter right next to her makes it difficult to explain to your wife why we SHOULDN’T have another item off the extra value menu.

In an homage to Madeline and her inane DVDs, for the moment, “That’s all there is, and there isn’t any more.”

Perhaps we should send a copy of one of those DVDs to Mr. Favre.

You didn’t REALLY think I was above that, did you?

Posted in Being a Daddy, Being a Husband, Being a Writer | Tagged: , , , , | 1 Comment »

My apologies to Michael Keaton…Or, my first professional event without a profession

Posted by doatmon on August 3, 2009

Good lord, I procrastinate even better when I DON’T work than I did when I DID work.  We are heading to my favorite place on the planet, the Outer Banks of North Carolina, in a matter of days and I can barely function.  Between reading fishing message boards, checking menus of restaurants I’ve already been to 20 times and trying to find houses within a three-hour drive of the OBX in the off-chance someone knocks on my door offering a job down there, I barely have time to write run-on sentences like this one.

But, my one job at the moment is to write in this blog (oh and raise two intelligent, strong-willed daughters and convince them that pre-marital sex only happens in commercials and Daddy’s special magazines).  I suppose I should post an entry.

Friday was an odd night for me.  It was my first professional event as a non-professional.  The funny thing is that it never even struck me until I went to get dressed.  Let me back up.

An agricultural-advocacy organization here in Ohio foolishly sponsored me to be a part of their inaugural leadership class.  Something tells me I got yanked right out of that brochure.  “We make stay-at-home dads…”

Their second class of suckers leaders started their education last week and as part of the first session, they set-up a meet and greet for former participants.  I agreed to go to impart my witty banter upon some more entirely unimpressed individuals.  I’m gracious like that.

But as I stood in my closet reaching for the net shorts and t-shirts that have become my wardrobe these past few weeks, I realized I might actually have to plug in an iron.  Oh, the horror.

It was at that moment, long-buried memories of networking, professional chit-chats and Gin and Tonics watered down with ice melted by boredom.  I hadn’t been to one of these in at least, well, two weeks.  Thankfully, one thing upon which I can always rely is the laid-back nature of agricultural events.  I pulled on some jeans and a Dry-Fit polo shirt (the lazy-man’s Tuxedo) and hopped in the car.

On the way over, I tried to reconcile my recent decision.  It is best for my mental state, for our daughters and our family.  I’m not taking myself off the grid entirely.   I am writing.  Getting my real estate license.  And I USED to have a role in this world of agricultural advocacy.  I can’t have become completely irrelevant in a fortnight, could I?  Certainly not while still being able to summon words like fortnight.

Alas, I arrived and my pep-talk dissipated as quickly as oxygen at a lobbyist conference.  I was talking to several very nice people involved in aquaculture and goat-processing respectively.  They handed me business cards.  I fished in my pocket and handed them a used wet-wipe.  Wait, must be the other pocket.  Empty Goldfish wrapper.  DAMNIT.  I don’t have a card any more.  And I certainly wasn’t going to give them my “Break for MILP emergencies” cards.  Please.

So now mortified, card-less and pissed the goldfish wrapper was EMPTY, I sat down to listen to the “program.”  First up was introduction of invited guests.  Oh, crap.  This was worse than the lack of business cards for two individuals.  This was an acknowledgement before the entire assembled group that I no longer had a title.  Or a job.  Or really a reason to be there.  It was a Cash Bar, after all.

I’d like to say that my fears were not justified, but the only thing worse than introducing me as a free-loading “kept husband” is the inevitable dubbing of Brock as “Mr. Mom.”  The sad thing is, I really don’t even mind the moniker.  But can’t we do better than a Michael Keaton movie that debuted on Beta?  I’m so irrelevant I don’t even deserve a reference from the 21st century.

Oh well, I suppose it could be worse.

I stood, doffed my implied cap and sat back down to cheers and jeers.

“That poor schmuck.”

“Well, somebody has to do it.  You poor schmuck.”

“The poor wife of that poor schmuck.”

Okay, maybe I made those up.  But I swear, I heard…

“Just like Cuba Gooding, Jr. in Daddy Day Camp.”

My apologies to Michael Keaton.  It turns out, it can be worse.

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