Another Day on a River

I'm going to tell you a story that is 100% true and leaves out no details unless they are irrelevant or uninteresting. I'm telling it to see if I can make you laugh, but honestly, it's also a metaphor for my whole life right now.

I went on the annual SES canoe trip down the Canon River today. 200 teenagers, half of whom had never canoed before, were herded down a beautiful Minnesota river valley at the peak of autumn. All of them returned alive and each of them had an experience they will never forget.

Can you imagine the logistics? Buses, permission slips, canoe rental, helping the kids prepare for how to dress and how to canoe, getting first aid kits and arranging chaperones. And then you have to prepare your own bag, not forgetting to pack extra clothes and food for those children whose parents might forget. This year, as most, this last prep occurs after the first round of parent teacher conferences, which we had last night from 4-8.

I have to make special arrangements for my family and I volunteer to work half a day for free because I love that river and I love those kids and I really believe in my heart that canoeing down a cold river in the peak of fall makes everyone a better person for their whole life.

At the risk of sounding like I'm thumping my chest, a trip like that can't happen without a person like me. I know I'm not the best teacher, even at my school, but if you gotta pick a guy to be in that place on this day, you pick me first.

So I found myself at 8:45 am on a muddy bank in Cannon Falls. 70 canoes were in a line above me, Steaming bodies and red cheeks and nervous smiles. For the next 45 minutes, my job is to bring the front of every canoe into the water, make sure everyone gets safely on, and shove them downstream. Only way to do that is to be calf deep in 45 degree water and to smile cheerfully and confidently at every person in the line, giving the same calm instruction to each one, one moment heaving with all my might, the next patiently repeating what has already been said.

Because I'm the last one on the river, my canoe is the sweeper. The sweeper uprights overturned canoes (two today), it monitors hypothermia, it gives on the spot canoeing lessons ("you are not mixing a batter here, you're paddling a boat"), it reminds people to wear lifejackets, it points out wildlife, it administers first aid and it does whatever it can to maintain the morale of the weakest members of the herd. I'm not claiming I did this myself. I had three excellent partners in two canoes.

Every year, 6 miles into the trip, the teachers at the back end up splitting up and being the rear paddler in a canoe full of inexperienced, shivering and despondent students. Having someone who knows how to steer, has strong arms and knows how to beat exhaustion invariably moves things along. Today, I commandeered one canoe, then added another canoe's duffer 1/4 mile further up. Around me, six people were wearing pieces of my clothing. The duffer made herself as comfortable as possible directly in front of me, wearing 8 layers of wet cotton sweatpants. I only had 4 miles to go, but for the first mile, I couldn't distract myself from the fact that this poor girl smelled like ass. Not BO. Not farts. Ass.

We got em all in of course. And, in a rare departure from the norm, we got em in on time. My feet were numb as hell and I was itching for bacon, but the final job is to get kids to clear out their canoes and get on the bus. At that point the sun was shining and everyone was feeling fine.

Except the French teacher.

This guy left the business world because there was too much pressure in middle management. He's a mealy little know it all who cannot help but tell you his opinion any any subject he happens to overhear. He's got a candy ass goatee and looks like an over the hill satan gone soft. As is the custom of the French, when he speaks to me, one of his hands is always in the small of my back.

He's been asked to check off kids' names from a list made on the bus on the way down. Kid gets on the bus, he's safe and sound and his mom is happy, scribble his name from the list. Easy.

He walks up to me and he's clean and he's dry. He smells faintly of lemon basil soup, but I think it might be a lotion. He places his hand in the small of my back and says, "you know what you should do next year? You should type the names of all the kids who are going and put a check box next to each name. I don't know how to do it, but I've seen it done on a computer. That would make it easier to check these kids in. That's what you should do next year."

As I say, this is metaphor.