I
confess I love to waste time paging through paddling and outdoor
magazines. I admit to being a gear junky
without shame or apology. It is a relatively harmless addiction and has
never cost me anything but money. I would feel naked without my Tilley
hat, polarized anti-spot wrap-around sunglasses and carbon fiber bent
shaft paddle. These items are well worn, familiar and comfortable. They
are like a favorite pair of ratty old jeans that I keep rescuing from
the trash each time my wife tries to throw them out. Of course, I have
accumulated lots of other gear over the years, at least one of
everything, but much of it goes unused except on rare occasions. I
enjoy the process of deciding what is essential and what can be left
behind for each
trip.
 American marketing has been very successful
in planting the notion that any
outdoor sport is at least as much about the gear and the uniform as
about the activity itself. Only the most destitute homeless person
would ever be seen riding a bicycle in jeans, a t-shirt and sneakers
instead of an expensive flamboyantly colored jersey, spandex shorts and
two hundred dollar cycling shoes. It is claimed that both cycling and
paddling clothing and gear are made in those garish day-glow colors for
the safety of being easily seen by drivers or motor boaters but I think
it is actually just an opportunity to dress up in uniform and proclaim
an identity.
There appears to me to be a
disparity between the prodigious quantities of expensive gear sold and
the numbers of people who actually use it in the field. I am suspicious
that more time is devoted to wishing to be outdoors than to actually
being there. Maybe buying gear helps to satisfy an appetite for outdoor
activities without demanding the time, sweat or risk of actually going
outdoors. There is no doubt that shopping is more popular than all
other sports combined. My paddling friends and
acquaintances of course are folks who do actually get outdoors.
Otherwise, I would likely never have met most of them. They have given
me the opportunity to witness an interesting variety of perspectives
and philosophies with respect to paddling paraphernalia.
Our friends Art and Jenny
belong to the gear-is-the-sport school of kayaking. Art is a small guy,
roughly as athletic in appearance and ability as Woody Allen. He can
often be heard giving his wife Jenny detailed instructions on how to do
whatever activity they are currently involved in. Jenny is strong,
capable and tolerant. She calmly ignores every word of Art’s
instructions. They hired two kayaks and a guide for their first
paddling experience. It was a six-mile trip on the quiet and scenic
Wakulla River near Tallahassee. Unlikely as it may seem under such
benign conditions, Art managed to capsize.
Despite that inauspicious
beginning, they enjoyed the outing so much that inside of two weeks
they showed up for their first club trip, the proud owners of two new
top-of-the-line kayaks. They had a new trailer to carry their new boats
on, two nice lightweight composite paddles and two Tilley hats to go
with their head-to-toe Columbia paddling outfits. They had paddle
leashes, pumps, the very best pfd’s, full and half spray skirts,
waterproof deck bags, whistles, knives, first aid kits, paddle floats,
hydration bags, extra rope, carabineers and more. I estimated that in
that two-week period they spent in the neighborhood of seven thousand
dollars to get started in paddling. They were ready for anything! Had
they been young, muscular and beautiful, they might have passed for
models in one of those sexy photos in Outside Magazine demonstrating
all the latest gear.
Art was particularly proud of his waterproof deck
bag into which he put his wallet, cell phone and other vulnerable
stuff. On their second outing with the club, we made a landing on Shell
Island beach near Panama City, Florida in moderate surf. Most of us
including Jenny comfortably rode the surf onto the beach but Art was so
busy informing Jenny of the proper way to handle a boat in surf that he
got himself turned broadside just at the wrong moment. In doing so, he
accomplished several things of value. He tested the seawater, later
assuring us that it was suitable for swimming. He practiced his Eskimo
roll, learning that only half of a roll can be completed in water less
than two feet deep and lastly, he found out that his expensive deck bag
did indeed hold water. Unfortunately, it held water IN better than it
held it OUT as evidenced by a ruined cell phone and a saturated
wallet.
In contrast, Jack is a
minimalist. He is a bachelor who all but retired in his mid-thirties to
dedicate himself to a life of paddling, hiking, hunting and fishing. He
paddles a very old, very experienced plastic sea kayak, wears army
surplus camo clothing, uses a cheap plastic paddle and wears Family
Dollar sunglasses. It would shame him to own a recent model Subaru
Outback with fancy Thule roof racks. He much prefers to throw his old
kayak in the bed of his ancient and decrepit pickup and tie it in with
a piece of frayed rope.
Although I am not entirely unsympathetic with
Jack’s pride in getting by on as little as possible, there is a point
at which I draw the line. Jack has been my companion on many multi-day
trips. On one paddling and trekking expedition in the Carolina
Mountains he brought nothing to eat or drink for an entire week except
Lipton dried pasta and rice pouches, granola bars and a water filter. I
had loaded my hatches with a cooler full of steaks, beer, juice, fresh
vegetables and even brownies. At every mealtime, I felt compelled to
offer to share my comparatively scrumptious fare. I suppose it is to
his credit that he nearly always refused. There is something to be said
for his approach. I can testify that his enjoyment of the sport is not
in the least diminished by his simple and Spartan style.
Nancy is devoted to safety and
in consequence to safety gear. She has had hundreds of hours of formal
training. She likes to share her in-depth knowledge of the finer
details of paddling technique and pontificates ad nauseum about safety
and rescue. She seems to take perverse pleasure in telling harrowing
stories of tragic kayaking accidents. Nancy always
packs every manner
of safety equipment; throw ropes, aerial flares, boat horns, towing
harness, space blanket, emergency food rations as well the standard
paddle float and bilge pump. She has every possible piece of equipment
that might be used to keep water out of the boat and of her person. She
has a perfectly custom fitted thick neoprene spray skirt always worn
even in the hot Florida summertime, an elaborate and expensive dry top
with tourniquet seals at the neck and sleeves, waterproof paddling
boots, nose plugs and ear plugs. It is a shame they haven’t come up
with a good mouth plug yet.
On one recent trip on a mild summer day at
a nearby gulf beach, we arrived at the launch site, everyone launched
and we all waited impatiently as Nancy took another fifteen minutes to
seal all the seals, zip all the zippers, pull all the bungees and tie
everything together to be ready to paddle. It was a scenic and a social
paddle but Nancy ignored the scenery and the society. Instead, she
devoted the entire trip to practicing sculling for support, bow
ruddering, sideslips, high braces and other technical maneuvers.
Perhaps, one day when she grows confident enough that she can keep the
water out she will lose her fear of it and enjoy paddling.
For Gina functionality always
takes a back seat to luxury and creature comfort. Her kayak is wide and
roomy enough to accommodate a virtual lounge chair seating arrangement
although in consequence it is slow as molasses. Her deck bag
is at least as spacious as the largest of ladies handbags and, no
doubt, similar in content and organization. It is a rare
moment when her right hand is not blindly fishing into its depths for
one or another essential item of cosmetic, medical, gastronomic or
social importance.
Kurt is a closet gearhead. He
has at least as much gear as anyone else and generally of the very
highest quality but only in basic black. Even though he is always
getting something new, nothing ever looks new. I wonder if, before
using it, he takes each new item out in the back yard and distresses it
by beating it with chains, scrubbing it with gravel and mud and maybe
staining it with a little used motor oil.
This is I think, an inverted
fashion statement. It is both a manifestation of a fiercely independent
distaste for uniforms and conformity and a way to uphold a crusty old
veteran image. I too get all my gear in basic black. I tell myself that
it is because it sets off the flashy wooden boats that I build and sell
but in truth, I think I share Kurt’s need to look like an iconoclastic
old salt although in that respect I am no match for him. Maybe I should
start paddling with a hook and an eye patch.
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