And back again…

At one point, I found myself paddling almost due south on the Elk River

Conservative estimate 22 mile round trip. Probably only about 20 miles…Tiring, but not difficult. Because I missed my turn to Prairie Plains Road and realized my mistake at a point where Winchester Highway (upon which I was driving) wasn’t far from the causeway across Woods reservoir near the VFW hall, I figured I’d just drive on and put in at Morris Ferry Dock. Heck, I found my way through those islands at the Elk River end of Woods last year. No problem. Of course I’d remember the way through this time. Sure.

I shot a lot of pictures, and those worth keeping, for reasons documentary, are here. I have a little more to write, and will get it done in due time. The more I think about it, the more I think I didn’t make it quite as far as Bluebell Island. I know I passed the crescent-shaped creek branch that enters the river, seen about middle of the map, below. Probably the dock and ladder I reached and paddled about a hundred feet beyond is located due south of that last “L” in Sherrill Cemetery. The road that crosses the river near the map’s bottom right corner is Highway 64.

The woman in the golf-cart at Morris Ferry let me launch my kayak from the ramp without paying the $3.00 fee. I was on the water by about 10 ’till eight, and set off down the middle of the lake toward the islands. No interest in exploring the shoreline I’ve already poked around in several times. I had a long way to go.

Paddled from about one edge of the map to the other, and back again

My impression of the new hullskin on the frame of Campsis Radicans is that sponson placement and the fact that they’re tabbed into position with sewn and glued PVC semi-circles results in a slightly more steeply pitched deck. Also, when fully inflated, the sponsons make a wavy line of the hull’s sides. Dunno whether that latter glitch or feature affects performance or not. Because the water’s surface was mirror flat, the air windless, and I was fresh, I paddled as hard as I could for a little while. Bow waves rippled their note as I sped roughly northeast. Then I slowed, but kept a steady pace until I found myself at the first of many islands.

Foliage is greener this time of year, and the water seems higher than it appears in this picture.

I spent about an hour completely turned around in those shallow water islands. Probably two of the miles paddled were spent looking for the main channel of the Elk. Deck compass was helpful, as I knew I’d need find an easterly course to find the the Elk. One of the things that confused me was the varying water temperature. Whenever I detected rippling, or felt the water radiating a coolness up through the hullskin, I imagined I’d come to the river. Actually, I think there are several springs in those now-flooded low hills, and the cold water I intermittently noticed was evidence of their presence below my keel.

My first mistake was in paddling along the left side of the first island. I should paddled to its right, and may have better recognized the pathway between the low islands, shallow, shallow water, and fallen trees.

Maybe an hour, but I’m not sure how much time I wasted (because I lost my 1992 Eddie Bauer waterproof watch at a put-in, somewhere in Tennessee) searching for the Elk. Must’ve seen the same styrofoam bait cup pushed up under leafy branches a couple of times. Thought, “I’ve seen that before. Just like some fool lost, in a movie.” Saw a dome tent hidden in the trees on one of the islands.

I saw a white bird wading. I saw dead wood covered in spiders’ webs. I saw a man smoking a cigarette while fishing from a bank, and asked directions. “It’s that way, I think,” he said, pointing the way I was already heading. I saw square metal box - a piece of junk that had been in the same place last year, and I remembered it marked the Elk River’s entry to Woods Reservoir. This time, the metal box looked shut, and had a piece of duct-tape on it. Last year, its door hung ajar.

At that point, looking up and sort of to my right, I saw the AEDC police boat further upstream. I paddled toward them, trying to point my bow out of their way, but the boat’s occupants evidently wished to exchange speech, motoring slowly toward me. They veered off a little and idled. I’d spoken to Troy Jernigan and another officer in the colder weather after umbrella sailing near Little Elder Island. I didn’t recognize either of the men in the boat this time. We greeted each other and went our different ways.

Upon reaching the bridge at Prairie Plains Road, my originally intended destination, I saw a family of plus sized people apparently breaking camp. Three women stood around the trunk of a green Camry or Avalon using cusswords. An older female child, possibly a teenager, sat sullen-looking in a lawn chair near the bank. A man removed the rain-fly from a blue and white dome-tent. I think the police in the boat had just told them to pack up their camp and move along.

In need of a stretch and a snack, I got out at the other side of the rudimentary boatramp. A shiny yellow small motorboat on a trailer was parked near where I stood and stretched. My way-past-expiration-date Power Bar had become melty in its colorful mint-green and purple foil wrapper. I rinsed it and my hands in the river water after I’d eaten the mint chocolate and crunchy stuff, then neatly folded the foil and put it back in my lunch bag. I stowed it near the bow hatch. The sullen-looking girl and the tent-man watched me like I was doing something extraordinary.

Last year, somewhat later in the season, when I paddled this part of the Elk, the river’s water was a sort of milky green in color, and felt cooler than it did last weekend. A large number of fallen trees and miscellaneous deadwood has stayed where it’s drifted, and looks like it would make passage difficult for most boats larger than human powered craft. In places the water’s too shallow, I’d guess, for even those 12 - 14 foot aluminum boats budget fishermen sometimes use.

Throughout the day, I observed at many points along the lake’s shore, among the trees on the islands, and along the riverbanks purplish-pink as well as orange plastic streamers tied to tree-limbs. I’m not sure if those were put in place by fishermen marking the many places where static lines were hung in hopes of catching fish in absentia. More likely, by Wildlife Resource Management Agency personnel to mark boundaries meaningful to people who rely, as I should have relied, upon maps.

A couple of places, I got out to stretch. I felt hungry, but ate nothing. I drank water only after I felt dryness in my mouth. Always trying to conserve something for the trip back.

My right elbow began to hurt. Tendonitis I haven’t felt on the water in over a year, since switching to the Eric Renshaw Greenland paddle I bought from his Ebay store for under a hundred bucks. Feeling pain, I concentrated on better form making exaggerated use of torso/abdominal crunch technique, and pushing off more with my feet. Found some relief. Found that if I moved my hands closer to my knees than to my waist, while paddling, and maintaining blade cant, torso-rotation, and low-angle blade-entry, I felt none of the tendonitis. So, that was the problem. I’ve developed a habit of holding the paddle too close to my waist, putting the blades in the water aft of my knees.

I paddled to a strange looking creek branch, on my right, that had a high, curling bank on the right curving around left and out of sight. The left bank lay like a gently sloping, low mound of mud, dirt, trees, fallen leaves. I paddled past it, then backed up and paddled into it looking for a place to get out and stretch. It was blocked further back by a couple of small, fallen trees. The sound of insects buzzing furiously informed me this was not the place to get out of the boat. Paddled backwards out, zig-zagging around other trees and branches in the water.

Farther upstream, I saw on the high bank to my left what appeared to be a lofted pole-barn without sides. Maybe a church’s picnic structure, then to a sturdy-looking dock and ladder with a flimsier-looking floating platform attached. I debated getting out there, but don’t much like to trespass. Across from the dock to my right someone had tied a long, thick, and at-the-bottom-frayed yellow rope to an overhanging limb. I paddled upstream a little more, and the water got pretty shallow among a greater number of fallen trees than seemed usual for the river. Beyond the trees, I turned around and headed back after getting out in a shallow place for a final stretch before reaching the bridge at Prairie Plains Road.

I paddled faster on the way back, taking fewer pictures. When I reached Mud Creek, I stopped and paddled closer to its mouth. It’s one of those oddities - a straight line in nature, and I could see a long way up, but could also see it was more or less impassable due to overhanging and fallen limbs. Near the mouth I saw a deciduous tree that produced what I thought at first were berries like raspberries, but seen closer appeared to be tiny pine-cones. Another oddity. I snapped a picture and moved on.

I stopped for lunch at the Prairie Plains Road bridge (I don’t recall the bridge’s real name, although I’ve seen it on a map). I “Hellooooed” the fishermen on the bank, asking whether they’d mind if I pulled in long enough to eat a sandwich. They welcomed me, and I paddled in, apologizing for interfering with their fishing. About halfway through my meal eaten standing up, I asked the older of the two men, a guy about my own age, “You guys catching anything?”

“No, not really,” the man replied, “Just playing with the bluegill, it seems.” He told me it was two o’clock. The campers I’d seen earlier were gone. I told the fishermen good luck, and got in my kayak, paddled on.

Finding my way out into the lake was pretty easy. I made the mistake of paddling to the outside of that one big island. I would have been out of the wind if I’d paddled with the island to my right. NOAA had predicted five mile per hour winds from the south, southwest. My experience is that winds are stronger on lakes than NOAA’s vicinity prediction. Fetch.

The shorter ramp at Morris Ferry Landing before setting out Saturday morning

The last couple of miles were the worst. I was pretty tired, my elbow hurt again by the time I got to the short asphalt ramp at Morris Ferry Dock. A couple of women with little red-headed boys were fishing. The boys came up and wanted to look at the kayak. Their mother tried to tell them to leave me and the boat alone. The kids just wanted to look, I talked to them about their fishing.

Better than a sports drink

My elbow hurt in the car all the way home. But when I got there, and disposed of the kayak and gear, I found that my wife had supper ready, and had made a pie with apples from my cousin Maxine’s tree. Glucosamine and Ibuprofin, an early bed, helped my recovery.

Last Sunday, I think, I looked at photos from this place, The Graveyard of Ships, that were linked to an East Coast kayaker’s personal webpage describing a paddling trip through the area. I guess paddling around those derelict hulks sounds appealing to me, as I enjoy industrial ruin and waste places, and my enjoyment of them would increase exponentially if I got to explore them kayak. Last night, I dreamed I was in a place completely snowed-in and found two very old, intact steamships, one of which was named Kodiak, but the name of the other I did not learn. Nice thing about dreamworld is it’s never too cold.

to any of the usual cast of pundits, or to most podcasts. Not because I’m pissed off, or anything like that, but I’m happier lately thinking my own thoughts. This evening, however, I did tune in to Joe and Melissa’s final WTD podcast, or most of it.

Ironman over at the Rogues’ site will question my masculinity, but I’m pretty durn happy to have got my waistline down to 34″. First time in eight or so years I’ve been able to confidently buy and wear trousers that size. At my fittest and thinnest, age of maybe 31 or 32, I had a 32″ waist. Probably won’t happen again until I’m also readier for somewhat narrower digs. Nevertheless I feel pretty good about this.

Weight Watchers has been effective. I’m allotted 31 points to maintain my weight, but some days I don’t eat that many, some days one or two points more.

I’ll get the names and authors later. Yeah, I’ve already forgotten the author’s names (LATER: I checked - authors are Harlan Coben and John Sandford, respectively), if I can be said to have ever remembered them in the first instance. The novels’ titles I recall: Dealbreaker, and The Hanged Man’s Song. Real meaningful fare, but I had a slow week at the office and needed to read something after having misplaced a months old issue of Modern Reformation, and a March issue of World Magazine. Those are both semi-Christian magazines, MR - unfortunate or comedically predestined initials - striving to be big “C,” and WM trying hard to be relevant, balanced, and current. Neither are devotionally sappy, although they both wax a little fruity on occasion.

But the point of this post is not to critically dissect avowedly “C”hristian periodicals. Instead I want to go on about the the crime, suspense, action, thriller subgenre of the fat published-straight-to-paperback protagonistically driven series genre. (LATER: I checked, the sub-genres for DB and THMS are, respectively, mystery suspense, and techno-thriller. Ooooh.)

Using the two listed above as my primary sources, I make the following observations. Apparently makes no difference whether the story is told first or third person. Each protagonist, hero, must have more than one interesting gimmick.

For instance the guy in Dealbreaker is a sports agent who’d been a college basketball star, but was horribly injured in some big trophy game, had a long recovery, no hope of pro sports career. He and his super-wealthy vigilante side-kick are Tai Kwon Do dojo-buddies, and are in near perfect fighting and physical condition. But, the goofily named protag, Myron Bolitar (clearly intended to sound like Simon Bolivar), lives at home with his parents in a basement apartment. He hates his name, and blames his parents. He drives a Ford Taurus. Blah, blah, blah. For all that, the book’s author is capable writing occasionally well and seems to have an amusing mind.

The guy in The Hanged Man’s Song has even more gimmicky quirks. He’s a celebrated professional painter, but he’s secretly an elite hacker capable of changing identities, manufacturing lines of electronic credit, and reading files in FBI computers more or less at will. He sometimes kills people, but has qualms about it. He travels with a beautiful, sexy vixen of a professional thief, also an elite hacker as well as his sometimes (but not sometimey) lover. If all that wasn’t enough, he reads Tarot cards, not because he believes they supernaturally predict anything, but because he thinks they provide a boolean logic alternative perspective to whatever conundrum defies clever solution. Blah, blah, blah.

I ate about 30 stale, generic reduced-fat “Wheat Crackers” while writing all that, supra. About the food-value equivalent of reading the two books ‘cited.’ I had the Weight Watchers points for the crackers, but I feel pretty guilty about applying my mind to the reading of junk-lit. Pretty easy to purge or work off the one, but what about the other?

I got lost on the way to Manson Pike Greenway trailhead this morning. I took the exit after the first Franklin exit, as directed, New Medical Center Parkway, drove toward Murfreesboro, and didn’t recognize any of the road between the freeway and Thompson Lane. A muscular black woman power-walking in a neighborhood back near I-24 gave me better directions, and crossing Thompson Lane, I came to the turn-off, Searcy Road or some such designation, “a left just before the bridge.” Because I’d wasted so much time lost, I didn’t get to paddle before the others from Stones River Watershed Association arrived.

Jim and Terri towed seven or eight canoes and sit-on-top kayaks behind a small, white Toyota truck upon the roof of which was strapped a Mad River Adventure canoe that’d been donated by Dicks Sporting Goods.

My volunteer efforts today made negligible contribution to the event’s success. I raked some foul algae away from the boat ramp, then did a lousy job of removing same from the rake loaned by Rutherford County Parks Department; I helped (set a couple of big, flat rocks) a guy whose name I’ve forgotten with a tattoo of a naked, bat-winged, red-eyed babe on his right calf build a little pier of rocks for boaters to use exiting their canoes; helped one guy into the too-small whitewater kayak he’d chosen to test paddle; helped a super-smart long-haired, bearded guy named Garth move some canoes over to where he tied them by their painters to a line strung for that purpose; assisted a planticologist named Terri by helping a bunch of adults and children into pfds; helped carry and load some boats after the event; and generally tried to act helpful.

I was only able to convince one person, a lovely blonde volunteer who said her husband would be jealous he didn’t get to do likewise, to demo the newskinned E68. Several others said they would like to, but had kids or thought the kayak would tip them out. Maybe it would have, dunno, but I’ve found it a willing enough and sufficiently forgiving conveyance. My guess is the E68 looked unusual, didn’t look like a recreational kayak, looked ’serious’ as opposed to ‘fun.’ Another brave soul, a 12 year-old boy, got into Campsis Radicans while it was still in the water, and paddled it. Didn’t get a good picture of him in the boat. I did get a chance to talk to his dad during my five minutes on the river. He works for one of the local watershed associations sampling, testing water on the Harpeth River. Guy’s gotta have the best job in Tennessee - he works out of his canoe.

The one bummer today was the lack of sufficient youth and small adult life-jackets, so a number of people with kids had to wait until those using the smaller pfds finished with them.

Toward the end of the day, I managed to paddle about five minutes until it began to thunder, the whistle was blown, and all boats returned to the ramp. Maybe next weekend I’ll get to put some miles under the unscuffed hull. Perhaps the 303 will have arrived by then, and I can get the deck treated.

Photos can be found here.

Together for the first time, oldskin and newskin. The replacement skin I bought from Ralph Hoehn’s www.pouchboats.com, shipped Monday, arrived today. Ralph told me I could expect it after the weekend, so I was surprised to see UPS pull in the driveway this afternoon. Were it not for the fine grains of sand inside the hull, and some slight wear on either side of the split rear deck just aft of the cockpit, I’d say the hull was brand new - not even a scuff mark on the keelstrips. I figured Boat Day would be faded skin’s Last Hurrah, but it looks like my Owl Creek exploration last Sunday marked the honorable end to a long career first as Pouchboats’ demo-boat, and as my own faithful Rocinante’s hardy covering.

I was at home for the blessed event because I got sick at lunch - either the cold coffee I consumed this morning in Lincoln County (who knows, maybe it was older than 24 hours and had grown something to which my intestinal tract and immune system objected), or that sandwich I had in my lunch. Anyway, suffice it to say I’ve felt worse today than I’ve felt in well over a year.

I had to open the box right away to see just how red the deck.

Then, because I felt a little better after crashing until two, I decided to remove the old, faded skin, and replace it with the new. Spattering rain fell as I took the box outside and removed the new hullskin, all bright and smelling of supple PVC, laying it on the grass beside where I’d set Campsis Radicans.

The new skin didn’t come with deck bungees, but that deck-hatch should prove better than equally useful, and I’ve still got the bungee from the old deck. Some other differences I noticed immediately:

• Red deck has Pouch logo in two places, fore and aft, as well as upon the hatch cover

• Tuck-in ‘tab’ all around the cockpit opening is separated from the deck by a sewn piece of deck material

• The aft deck closure has been changed from the sewn-in plastic tube-strip (which I’ve had to repeatedly sew up again) to a more tightly integrated plastic tube strip sheathed in white fabric

• The hull structures used to center and keep centered the frame in the skin are velcro rings glued in place at the factory, as opposed to the strips with snaps that’d been added by Ralph to the original skin. This skin came with the standard toggle plugs for the air hoses used to inflate the sponsons - the old skin came with a T-fitting to inflate both sponsons at once, thus evenly.

• The sponson sleeves are no longer “free,” they are sewn to a PVC tab, and stuck down forward of the cockpit opening - dunno why. And the straps hanging from the sponson tubes with PVC loops through which to run the lines from the rudder pedals to the rudder cables are not to be found in the new skin, which kind of sucks, because I liked that feature - kept them out of the way of my knees. EDIT: Later, looking at this photo, I realized it is upside-down, and that my statement above is wanting. Of course the sponson sleeves are attached, sewn in, all along the tops of the sleeves where the hull meets the deck fabric. Earlier iterations, that is, in the old skin that came with my kayak, had sponson sleeves that were loose all along their bottoms. Perhaps the change noted above is intended to aid in centering and keeping centered the frame in the skin, keeping the sponsons even in relation to gunwales?

• The new skin came with a set of rudder cables enclosed in long tubes that will, undoubtedly, prevent wear a their points of entry into the hull, as well as preventing wear and possible fouling where they would otherwise have come into contact with flotation bladders and whatever drybagged gear is carried beneath the deck aft of the cockpit.

• New skin’s rudder bracket (probably there’s a real, nautical term for it that I don’t know) is held in place by nuts and posts, whereas the original skin’s rudder bracket is held in place by rivets

I overexerted myself this afternoon, and failed to properly center the skin in the frame. By the time I went back into the house, my clothes were soaked in the stinking sweat of sickness, and I’d been unsteady on my feet as I picked the reskinned boat up and set it on its sawhorses. Perhaps the 303 I ordered will arrive tomorrow, and I can treat the deck to prevent rapid fading tomorrow after work. If I’m feeling well enough, I’ll also try to recenter the frame in the skin.

Here’s hoping I’m feeling well enough to participate in Boat Day on Saturday.

This coming weekend, Stones River Watershed Association is holding its annual Boat Day event. I’ve volunteered to help out at the event, and am bringing my single-seater Pouch E68 folding kayak for all and sundry to demo. Pictured above is last year’s Boat Day. What I’ve pasted below is from Stones River Watershed Association website.

Boat Day in Murfreesboro and Smyrna. These events offer an opportunity to try out a variety of canoes and kayaks, both solo and tandem, in slow moving or flat water. Experienced paddlers from the Tennessee Scenic Rivers Association will be on hand to demonstrate skills and safety requirements. There will also be booths and exhibits from various community organizations and agencies. The events are free and open to all, but minors under 18 must be accompanied by an adult.

• Smyrna: This event is sponsored by the town’s Stormwater Management Program, with help from SRWA, and will be held in a quiet cove of Percy Priest Lake at the Stewart Creek Recreational Area, a Corps of Engineers property on the west side of Weakley Lane. Reach the property by turning north on Weakley from Sam Ridley Parkway and proceeding 2.4 miles before turning left. Map. More information from Greg Upham, 355-5701.

Murfreesboro: This will be our 4th year in Murfreesboro at the Manson Pike trailhead of the Greenway. Murfreesboro Parks and Recreation sponsors this event with SRWA providing volunteer staffing. Each year we have a different blend of boats, so there is always something new. If you’ve come before, come again. Better yet, volunteer to help with the event by contacting Jim Barden: tbear1@clearwire.net or 896-4645. Parking is at the intersection of Medical Center Pkwy. and Searcy. Map.

I ate so much yesterday evening at John’s house that my gut physically hurt. He offered to send a covered plate full of that same amazingly good food home with me, but I could not at that time regard or contemplate another morsel. And that is why I am eating a bowl full of leftover spaghetti as I ponder what to write next.

This morning I slept in until about six. I got up, made coffee, boiled water in the kettle for oatmeal, looked at email, read the news, ate breakfast, read from another novel. I pulled my synthetic water clothes from where I’d left them hanging over the shower to dry, and more importantly, to air out overnight. Most of yesterday’s lunch I’d left uneaten while on Woods, so it served as the basis of the lunch I took with me paddling today.

By Thursday I’d made up my mind to skip church and go paddling this morning. I wanted to put in at Devil’s Step boat ramp on the south shore of Tims Ford Lake, and paddle west to explore Owl Hollow, which runs almost south to north.

Driving 41-A through Estill Springs and Winchester feels like it takes forever because the geniuses who run both municipalities have limited the four-lane highway’s speed to 40 - 45 miles per hour for unreasonably long stretches.  Speedtrap.

The boat ramp was busy with pontoon boats, daycruisers, speedboats, and jet-skiis. I quickly unloaded Campsis Radicans, moved the car, rigged the boat, and got underway. NOAA weather report predicted eventual winds from the south, southwest at five miles per hour, so I hoped I’d have a gentle breeze at my back on the return leg.

First, I paddled over to Devil’s Step campground, part of Tims Ford State Park, to have a look at the spot my wife and I camped in May of 2007. Water’s up pretty high, now. I saw a red, A-frame tent in the place we pitched our green A-frame tent. Most of the other spots were filled up with camper-trailers or motor-homes. A number of campers had pontoon boats and jet-skiis tied up near their campsites. Back past the courtesy dock at the boat ramp I paddled - last time I paddled near it, the water was low and the dock was high above it, as if on stilts. Today it was at water-level.

Around the other side of the boat ramp picnic area the shoreline cuts in and I paddled as far into it as I could. Saw what looked like a broken beehive cairn, maybe housed a spring spigot a hundred years ago. I continued on my way, and my journey was uneventful. I observed hundreds of small fish with bluish tails silhouetted under the water against shallow rock shelves. I stopped to stretch, and to don my sprayskirt. I saw a box turtle swimming away from my kayak. I enjoyed paddling the waters confused by the wakes of many powerboats.

At Owl Hollow, two or three speedboats towed their tethered skiers. I paddled to the top of the branch where there were no other boats, and paddled further, up the creek I’d guess is called Owl Hollow Creek, but is not identified on my map.

Insects buzzed. The creek looked impassible. I found a narrow space between a fallen log and a bank overhung with a thorny vine’s branches. I made it through and paddled further, passing under a log fallen across the creek from bank to bank. about a 50 feet past the log bridge, another fallen tree completely blocked all passage, and the creek was too narrow for turning. I backed my kayak out, remembering to lay flat forward face to foredeck as I had on the way in.

I found the narrow space more difficult to negotiate on my way out. As I was managing the thing, I saw something that looked like a big, black tractor pedal. It looked like it had a length of black cable attached to it, and it was about six inches from my kayak’s waist, up against the bank. I prodded it with my paddle and it scooted forward. A snapping turtle, with a tail like a ray or a skate. I took its picture, camera battery about dead, and got quickly past the tiny Gamera spawn.

Finally, I found a place to eat part of my lunch, in my kayak, watching as a family group tried to teach one of their children to water-ski. I never eat all of the food I bring paddling at one sitting. It’s better, I think, to have something in reserve if delayed or without energy toward the end of a trip. Usually, I wind up not eating part of the lunch, and take it home.

I’ve got a bag of unsalted peanuts with salted almonds on the kitchen counter now. What I did eat was a peanut butter and jelly sandwich with four generic Fig Newton cookie bars. I found the jelly in the cabinet yesterday beside the peanut butter. Apple Cinnamon Something. My wife often buys a variety of food items without mentioning them to me, and from time to time, I find them.

Not much else to say. It was hot today, but not hot as hell. I used my sprayskirt because the Greenlandish paddle I habitually use has no drip rings, and because I thought that if some drunk in a speedboat gets too close to me, I have a better chance of righting the boat if I don’t ship much water. An older couple watched me paddle up to the boat ramp. The man was interested in the folding kayak, and we talked about the boat for awhile.

Then I secured the kayak to the car’s roof racks and drove home.