Living in the desert I have access to a very large and windy lake. My cousin and I would often take the canoe out even with the
wind because it always felt great to learn how to paddle with and against the waves.
Learning how a
boat acts in a wave spoke to me.
Until a squall hit, sudden and ferocious. Waves five feet tall if they were an inch. We
rode the storm towards shore, keeping the canoe mostly perpendicular to the waves with a slight angle up or down. We were doing well, keeping it balance. The shore was only fifty yards away but we were still in thirty feet of
water.
I still don't know how it happened. A
rogue wave direct from hell I would guess. Before I knew what was going on I was in the drink! I watched my two expensive
fishing poles fall towards the murky depths and my tackle box floating away too quick to
rescue.
My cousin and I fought Mother Nature's wrath for what seemed like ten minutes, trying to paddle the capsized canoe towards shore. It wasn't until I took a large mouthful of slimy lake
water that I realized the
anchor we had tied to the ....bow? of the canoe was of course on the bottom now. We had been fighting the
anchor for ten minutes.
I always carry a pocket knife clipped to my shorts so I cut the
rope and had to listen to my cousin bitch at me about his ten dollar anchor while we carried our canoe the three miles to the truck.
Nature, you scary!