The Tippy Canoe, Part Two

W. BRUCE CAMERON

Editor’s Note: The following column was originally published in 2007.

In last week’s column, I explained how my neighbor Tom has blackmailed me into going on a canoe trip with him by threatening to withhold his wife’s fried chicken. I don’t know how his wife, Emily, makes her chicken so delicious, but I’ll bet she never intended it to be used as a weapon.

At this point, we’ve managed to get the canoe off the roof of the SUV, and we sit in the wilderness parking lot trying to decide whether we should lighten the cargo load by eating some of the chicken now, or just have the chocolate cake.

“I’d say let’s just eat cake, but I don’t see any place around here to get a latte,” I point out.

Tom, however, is anxious to get going. To indulge my friend, I agree to put away the cake and help carry the canoe to the river’s edge so we can float out onto the water and have lunch. We each grab an end of the canoe and, lifting smoothly, tip the thing over. All of Tom’s carefully packed manly gear scatters, though by lunging I manage to save the cooler from opening and spilling any chicken.

Tom starts putting everything back in the canoe, which I think is foolish - we’ve proven we can’t do this. “Tom, maybe we should go canoeing someplace where people can help us carry the boat, like the YMCA,” I suggest.

“Maybe if you picked up your end, the canoe wouldn’t tip over,” Tom rebuts. (He doesn’t know much about boating.)

After half an hour with lots of grunting and no food, we manage to drag the canoe to the river’s edge, where we encounter an insurmountable obstacle: water.

I’d expected placid currents - we’d drift downstream, animals smiling and waving at us from the shore. Tom would paddle quietly so as not to wake me. But this river is a dark, swollen mass of water that looks completely hostile to the concept of naps.

“It’s snow melt. Otherwise the river would be too shallow,” Tom explains.

Another shock when I accidentally step into the water: Apparently, “snow melt” is melted snow.

“You said it would be wilderness, not cold water,” I accuse. “Forget it, Tom. I’m not going on this suicide mission, I don’t care what you say.”

“Oh, yeah?” He fixes me with a piercing stare. “What if I said ... ‘potato salad’?”

I gasp, sitting weakly in the canoe. “Emily made her potato salad?”

“Got it in Tupperware,” Tom croons in a drug dealer’s sing-song.

Even the most courageous man alive would have trouble chickening out of the canoe trip in the face of Emily’s potato salad. Grumbling, I get in the front of the watercraft and let Tom push us out into the current, which firmly grips the boat and pulls us downstream backward.

“Hand me a paddle, Tom.” I say. “Also a drumstick.”

“Uh-oh,” Tom replies.

I turn and stare at him in disbelief. “Don’t tell me you forgot to bring lunch!”

He shakes his head and points to the shore, where the paddles are still leaning up against a tree. “Thank God,” I breathe, relieved.

The current gleefully drags us out into the center of the river, and we swiftly round a bend, still facing backward.

“We’re probably going to need the paddles at some point,” I speculate. “Can you call someone?”

He shakes his head. “I don’t have a cell phone.”

“You mean to tell me you went canoeing without a cell phone?” I picture Lewis and Clark rolling over in their graves.

Tom stands up. “I’d better get the paddles,” he says.

“Tom,” I reply, which is all I’m able to get out before the river starts forcefully entering my mouth. Don’t stand up in the boat, I’d wanted to say.

The water is even colder when it covers my entire body, and I immediately begin worrying that I might lose the potato salad. Thrashing, I manage to grab the cooler and make it over to Tom so he can drag me to safety.

We weakly collapse on the bank. “Now,” I choke, “can I finally have some chicken?”

To write Bruce Cameron, visit his Website at . To find out more about Bruce Cameron and read features by other Creators Syndicate writers and cartoonists, visit the Creators Syndicate web page.

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