When the weather turns damp and horrible and all I want to do is curl up by the radiator, my coworkers always get the bright and chirpy idea of going canoeing together. Lake temperatures tend to be somewhere between “frigid” and “freezing,” while my preferred swimming temperature is “jacuzzi.” And I’m not a fan of feeling miserable, unless I’ve just listened to an emo album.
So when the old canoeing / kayaking / getting soaked in a boat idea came up, it was just bad luck that I had been indulging in some Dashboard Confessional. It was only about 50 feet from the rental place to the dock, but in the time it took to drag the canoes down, a thick mist fell. My waterproof jacket immediately gave proof that it was neither waterproof nor, in fact, at all serviceable as a jacket.
Seized with a flash of temporary enthusiasm, I took it off and tied it around a post. Then I grabbed the oars and pushed off into the unknown, feeling very fit and inspired. That lasted about five seconds.
It might have lasted longer, but a massive spider rappelled down from a tree by the shore and blew right into my canoe. You know how Revere, with muffled oar, silently rowed to the Charlestown shore? If it was me that Longfellow was writing about, the poem would be full of screams and sloshing. Somewhere beyond the mist, one of my teammates bellowed to ask if I was okay.
“Don’t worry about her!” cried another. “She’s a contract worker!” At the end of a minute, the spider was no.
