Chaos in a Tandem Kayak

SPLISH

WHEN TWO GRANDMOTHERLY TYPES Take to Kayaking, the Mud Hens Flee

Splash

text by Janet Webb Farnsworth photographs by Bernadette Heath

Hold still!" I yelled back

According to photographer Bernadette Heath, who was causing our yellow tandem kayak to rock precariously from side to side. “I’m not moving; you’re the one wiggling all over the place,” she snapped back. “Not me. All I’m doing is breathing. Now sit still.” Afraid we would capsize, I didn’t dare turn around to look, but I just knew Bernadette was doing the boogie in the back half of our kayak. “You’re doing just fine,” said Peter Zwagerman, owner of Arizona Canoe & Kayak in Tempe, and instructor on this expedition. “You’ll get the hang of it.” I hoped he was right. This was the first time in a kayak for Bernadette and me, and we had problems keeping the thing upright on Apache Lake. We planned to attend Zwagerman’s two-day class on kayak camping, learn to handle and pack a kayak, joyously paddle to Mazatzal Bay, spend the night, then head on down the lake to the marina the next day. We managed to cram our supplies into the crooks and nooks of the kayak, but we had a hard time with the joyous paddling. Apache Lake stretches for 18 miles between Horse Mesa Dam and Theodore Roosevelt Dam along the Salt River. Surrounded by the Superstition Wilderness and Three Bar Wildlife Area in the Tonto National Forest, the long narrow waterway makes a playground for boaters and fishermen and a home for javelinas, bighorn sheep, eagles and a pair of terrified kayakers who feared they were on the "endangered" list.

Just getting into a kayak puts your nerves on edge, especially if you're nicely into your 50s. It required stepping into a spray deck, which looks like a rubber skirt held on with suspenders, then adding a PFD, personal flotation device, known to landlubbers as bobbed ridiculously along, but was comfortingly close if we went overboard.

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The other students, Ron Jackimowiez and his wife, Karen, got their single kayaks into the water with grace and ease, much to our chagrin. As we started across the lake, the others paddled confidently while Bernadette and I wobbled ignominiously behind, trailing our float ring. Zwagerman's assistant, Steve Rizzo, stayed near us. Clearly, Zwagerman had assigned him to keep an eye on us, so we dubbed him the granny-sitter.

I sat in the front cockpit and had two jobs: in all directions. She wasn't much of a backseat driver.

Finally we reached Mazatzal Bay, more delighted than Noah to get on dry land, but Zwagerman had other plans for us: to learn a wet exit and a deep-water re-entry. I was seriously troubled by this. First, my spray deck kept me snugly in the kayak, so how was I going to get out of it underwater? Second, I had trouble getting into the kayak close to the shore, so how was I going to manage out in the lake? a life jacket. Through a series of nearly impossible contortions, we eased down into the hole, or cockpit, fastened the spray deck to the kayak and prayed. Our kayak was a "two-holer," more properly called a tandem, and it doubled the problem of getting in because there were two of us struggling.

As we pushed off from shore and waited for the rest of the group to load, Bernadette and I felt like a pair of sitting ducks as waves from passing boats threatened to upend us at any moment. Zwagerman called from the shore, "You two have to use teamwork!" Then he laughed. We'd attended his canoeing class (see Arizona Highways, March 1998, "A Canoeing Class for Fumbling Grandmas Turns Out to be a Hair-raising Adventure") and he knew we had trouble getting our act together. To add to our indignity, he had tied a Winnie-the-Pooh float ring to the back of our kayak, where it first, to provide forward motion by means of smooth, rhythmic paddling and, second, to warn Bernadette of objects we were about to hit. Bernadette had one simple job: to steer with her paddle. While I propelled us forward remarkably well, Bernadette couldn't seem to get a handle on steering. We zig-zagged back and forth, covering twice the distance of the other kayakers. Granny-sitter Rizzo sat patiently in his kayak and shook his head as we roamed the lake.

"Mud hens straight ahead," I announced nautically as we approached a small flock of birds swimming peacefully.

"I'll steer around them," Bernadette replied confidently.

"Mud hens closing in," I repeated worriedly.

"I'll turn and we'll miss them for sure," Bernadette gasped as we plowed straight ahead, sending squawking birds flapping There was one redeeming point, though. David Smith, another photographer, was going to take pictures of Bernadette and me going through our maneuvers. I'd been camera fodder for Bernadette for three years, and now a photographer would take pictures of her doing something stupid.

Behind a mesquite tree with plenty of sharp thorns, I donned polypropylene foundation clothing that resembled a pair of navy-blue long johns, struggled into a wetsuit, added my blue spray deck, lilac life jacket, an orange noseplug and a white helmet. Bernadette at least looked coordinated in her black and red outfit.

We waddled to our kayak and got settled in less than 10 minutes with a minimum of "sit still" bickering. Zwagerman patiently explained the procedure: Paddle out, each tuck a paddle under our right arm, roll to the left; when upside down, pull the orange ball on the front of the spray deck, kick free of the kayak and resurface - together.

"Sure, no problem," I lied while Bernadette counted-one, two, three and over we went. Upside down, I panicked. I was stuck in the kayak until I remembered to pull the orange ball. Fumbling frantically, I found the ball and yanked it. Out I jettisoned and my head popped above water, followed quickly by Bernadette's.

"I forgot to pull that ball," Bernadette whined through her noseplug.

"Me, too," I sputtered.

We had exited and survived. No small accomplishment for us, but the worst was yet to come. Now we had to get back into the kayak while in the water. Zwagerman showed the proper methods, but it looked difficult even for him, and I couldn't imagine how two natural-born klutzes were going to manage.

Under Zwagerman's supervision, we inflated a child's yellow swim-aid - a "floatie" - to put on the end of a paddle, then we stuck the other paddle end through the webbing on top of the kayak. Bernadette was in the back, so she went first. All she had to do was get her left leg on top of the floating paddle end, then heave herself onto the kayak, turn around, and slip her legs into the cockpit. My job was even simpler. I had to steady the kayak for her. Just in case we flubbed this procedure, Zwagerman and Rizzo stood by for a rescue.

Bernadette started out all right. She hoisted her leg onto the paddle and hooked her ankle around it for balance. So far so good, but then the rest of her wouldn't follow. Her bottom refused to get on top of the kayak. The more she struggled, the more I laughed and shook the kayak. Zwagerman couldn't give instructions because he laughed so hard he couldn't talk. On shore, David Smith clicked away with his camera and yelled, "I've got blackmail photos here."

In disgust, Bernadette gave a mighty lunge

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and hurled herself at the kayak. Her momentum carried her clear over the kayak into the water on the other side, which set off another round of laughter. She kept explaining the whistle around her neck was catching on something, but from my angle, gravity was her problem, Frustrated, Bernadette finally lumbered aboard, but instead of sliding smoothly into the cockpit, she got her rump and knees stuck, which left her squatting on top of the kayak. She wiggled like Houdini until she finally slid into the cockpit and collapsed in relief.

"Let's see you do that," Bernadette challenged.

I hopped aboard the kayak as graceful as a ballerina. Well, maybe not quite a ballerina, but my performance was definitely classier than Bernadette's. Kayaking wasn't bad after all.

Back on shore for the night, we ate spaghetti and told tales around the campfire while a full moon laid a golden path across the lake. A great blue heron flapped slowly by, and a friendly fish splashed nearby as I gratefully crawled into my bedroll and fell asleep.

The next morning, I tried out the single kayak, and just as I suspected, it was much easier to handle. Bernadette's wiggling had been our problem all along. She probably didn't sit still in church, either. I decided to palm the tandem kayak off on another set of Fools. I attempted to con Ron and Karen into trying it, but Ron said, "We don't do anything in tandem. That's why we've been married for 15 years. Do you want to be the cause of a divorce?" I could see how thatcould happen. But peer pressure prevailed, and they agreed to go out for five minutes. We all lined the shore like spectators at a prize fight.

To my disappointment, they did well. No bickering. I took Ron aside and asked his secret. "Keep your mouth shut and anticipate her moves," he whispered. Hmmm. Maybe that was the secret of working with Bernadette.

Fun time over, we repacked the kayaks and started for the marina. Zwagerman provided us with toys suitable for our intelligence. Mine was a vivid-yellow water gun. I loaded my gun and kept it handy in case I needed to shoot a mean-looking catfish or a low-flying duck. I took a few shots at Bernadette, justfor target practice, which didn't help her mood any. Then I engaged in warfare with nearby kayaks. This further irritated Bernadette because she got hit by missed shots as she plowed along with her paddle.

While I paddled passably well, Bernadette's navigational skills hadn't improved. We still meandered around the lake, and the group had to wait patiently for us to catch up. The 1.5-mile trip to the marina felt like 10 miles to our already sore arm muscles.

After lunch, Bernadette tried maneuvering the single kayak and bragged, "This is a piece of cake." Then she tried to get out. One leg hit the water and the kayak tipped, sending her sprawling and screaming into the water. She contended it was a freak acci-dent, but I knew better. When she tried to get back in, she fell again.

dent, but I knew better. When she tried to get back in, she fell again.

As I watched her wobble and weave her kayak toward our take-out point, I knew I'd been right all along. Bernadette was our entire problem. She just couldn't seem to get the hang of kayaking. It would help, though, if she would sit still. All Janet Webb Farnsworth lives in Snowflake, where Silver Creek doesn't hold enough water for kayaking, but she's ready to go again as long as Bernadette Heath is not the backseat driver.

Bernadette Heath of Star Valley says tandem kayaking is a good way to test any relationship - especially friendship. If you are still speaking to each other after the experience, the bond should last a lifetime.

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