30 Adventuresinart – A challenge to myself to produce one sketch or drawing a day for 30 days to help promote my line of adventure shirts at: www.wetdogwear.com  Day 10 – Sketch #10

Canoes on Caddo Lake – Sonja Quintero – Silver Gelatin Print

I’m finding my way back to the darkroom. Slowly, but surely.  Going back to my roots. It’s been a slow process these past few weeks, but I’m starting to get the hang of it again. It’s like riding a bike.

I don’t know what will become of this homecoming of mine. So far, the prints that have surfaced have been nothing to get excited about! Seems like right now it’s more about the journey. Shouldn’t it always be? A journey back into that dark, magical place.  A place rich with the smells of developer. A place rich with photographic possibilities.

In a world of instant gratification, it’s nice to know some things are still worth the wait.

Credit:

http://twistedsifter.com/2012/06/top-50-pictures-of-the-day-for-2012/

Wekiva Island is located in the Wekiva Springs, FL area, Northwest of Orlando. Many, many years ago it was the site of a local favorite restaurant “Cock of the Walk”. Patrons would dine on down-home Southern seafood while watching the Wekiva river flow by. A wooden platform across the shore provided sumptuous scraps for raccoons which gladly appeared on the platform, no matter the time of day, to nibble away. As a child, I delighted in watching the little critters.

How fortunate for me that now as an adult the venue has transformed into a perfectly adult appropriate getaway? The blissful Florida weather beckoned and the parking lot was packed accordingly. As my best buddy and I approached the sundrenched camp of deck chairs, benches, sand pits, and grills, a smile stretched across my face. That smile did not leave the entire time we visited. A large group of guys played beach volleyball and tons of bikini clad women dotted the shoreline. Since this was a purely impromptu visit, we were not dressed appropriately… at all. Jeans, blouses, and closed-toed shoes did not fit in. This is the land of bathing suits, sunglasses, and flip flops.

We felt awkward and welcomed at the same time. Strolling among the decidedly Southern,yet demographically diverse crowd, we took notice of the families mixed among the couples all while sandy, soaking wet dogs darted in and out of the river.  I sighed. I needed to relax and decided to ignore my lack of appropriate clothing. We pulled up to the bar and without hesitation, I knew the beer for the job…. Landshark of course!

I took it all in. Men shared fishing stories. Bikers revved their engines in a friendly competition. Kids splashed in the water. Families and friends swapped stories. Kayaks and canoes continually floated by. Clusters of friends dotted the lawn playing corn hole. Sunbathers soaked up the January Florida sun. Yeah… I fell in love. Then, the gears began to turn. My birthday is next weekend. There are “river-banas” (cabanas) to rent for the day. I weighed my options. Currently, we have plans set already, but this felt like paradise. Sad to say, next weekend’s weather is not ideal so we will stick to our plans, but I feel a Cinco de Mayo party along the river coming our way.

There is plenty of affordable beer and wine, while food is served through local vendors. Canoes and kayaks are available for rent. Adirondack chairs line the river, but I suggest bringing along your own lawn chairs, especially on the busy weekends. I will definitely be back and hopefully soon!

Related articles

• Black Bear Encounter at the Seminole Wekiva Trail (chasebutterflies.wordpress.com)
• Weighing Rigs & Paddling The Wekiva River – (Sorrento, FL) (rv-dreams-journal.com)
• A Local’s Favorite Orlando Watering Holes (thisfloridalife.com)
• A Very Happy Hour at Margaritaville (thisfloridalife.com)

So today I’m going to give y’all a break.  We’re going to talk about that summer in 1972 when all of us worked at various summer camps in and around Wolfeboro, New Hampshire.  Wolfeboro scatters itself around the shores of Lake Winnepesaukee, a magnificent waterscape populated with countless tiny islands, and marshlands filled with grebes, herons, loons, Canada geese, and all manner of small creatures upon which the former feed.

And the camps surround the lake like a string of pearls.  There are private camps for the wealthy, many of which have been there since the 1800s, like the one where Sandy and Keith worked doing restoration construction on some of the older buildings that decrepitude was creeping up on.  And there are summer camps for children, rich, like the one Martha worked at.  And then there was Camp Urban Opportunity, where I worked.  It was run by some philanthropic foundation, with the purpose of getting ghetto children out of the ghetto for two weeks in the summer.

All four of us were students at Elite School of Visual Arts, a small independent art school, the brainchild of a group of survivors of the Bauhaus Movement who had fled the confines of New York City for the broad vistas of small town New England.  We four were chronic troublemakers even in this hyperliberal incubator, possibly because we all suffered from the combination of ADHD and too much marijuana.  But that’s another story.

It was pure coincidence that the four of us ended up in the same general vicinity that summer.  All of us had parents who were not pleased with our progress in some way or another, and for one reason or another we were disconnected from the familial money tit.  Therefore it was necessary to make our own money.

Martha had actually tried turning tricks, but as she was a very large woman (she once came to my Halloween party dressed as a mattress), her market niche was too small, so in desperation she turned to legal work instead, which was much more healthy although less lucrative, at the end of the day.  She worked at Camp Bambi, which catered to the horsey set, and even though no horse could handle Martha’s 300 pound frame, she held up the arts-and-crafts angle of the camp and was accepted as a Bohemian with her hand-made colorful flowing robes and long beaded earrings, her red-gold hair flowing loose down to the backs of her flesh-enfolded knees.

Sandy and Keith were both refugees from wealthy country club tennis families, and had learned the building trade as a means of rebellion and now worked together as restoration carpenters, doctoring New England’s ailing elderly buildings.  They had been hired by Camp Longago, a private family camp, to repair leaky roofs and combat the inevitable dilapidation wrought by time and weather.

My position had evolved because of my previous employment at the YWCA in a down-at-heel section of Boston, where I worked as a breakfast cook for the women who were fortunate to get a $15 double room, breakfast included.  I slung bacon and eggs, pancakes and sausage, from six to eight every morning, seven days a week.  I was allowed to eat the oatmeal if there was any left, and there was always some left.  ”The Oatmeal Diet,” I called it.  I certainly lost weight on it.  If you ever want to lost weight, try it.  The problem was, I did not need to lose weight.

So when the notice came up on the YWCA bulletin board for a camp counsellor at the Y camp in Wolfeboro, I jumped on it.  I had a hard time getting out of the clutches of Ms. Hardass, my supervisor in the kitchen, simply because I was a good egg-slinger and showed up every day, but she finally consented to write me a letter of recommendation, and I nailed the job.

I had to make my own way up to Wolfeboro from Boston.  My other partners-in-crime came from other parts of New England:  Keith from Maine, Sandy from Cape Ann, Martha from Vermont.  We all hitch-hiked to our respective camps on Lake Winnepesaukee, and met up in Wolfeboro for one last brewski together before heading off to our summer fates.

My gig turned out to be much, much worse than the Y egg-slinging job.  From 6 till 8 I cooked breakfast for the little darlings.  Then from 9 till 10 I Washed. The. Fucking. Dishes.  Then I went to the arts-and-crafts room, where I attempted to interest the little pigs in jewelry making, modeling clay, watercolor painting, macrame, origami, everything except for the various forms of murder upon which I continually fantasized so as not to actually commit it.  At night I slept in one of the campers’ cabins along with eight of the little monsters.  I never got any sleep because, being thirteen years old, they were continually crawling out the windows in order to rendezvous for the purpose of fornication with the boys from the “brother” camp down the road.  Unfortunately, it was also part of my set of responsibilities to specifically prevent this, on pain of I-don’t-know-what if one of them turned up pregnant after camp.

I got one one half-day a week, and one weekend a month, off.  My weekends were generally occupied in recklessly climbing the peaks of the Presidential Range, alone, without regard to life or limb.  The worst that came of it was a sprained ankle that I got while running full out down Mount Madison in a terrifying lightning storm.  I ended up spending the night rolled up in a tarp next to the road, awaking covered with mud and leaches.  The kindly man who gave me a ride back to the camp shook his head and clucked all the way.

My half-days were my canoe days.  I would borrow a canoe from the camp and slide out into the lake, taking compass bearings on the various islands; there were so many islands, and they looked so much alike, that one could easily get lost and spend days trying to find open water again.  My favorite thing was to back into some back-water marsh and just sit and watch the life teaming around me.  My very favorite moment was when I had gone out very early in the morning, when the mist was thick on the lake, and was sitting still on the water listening to the loons calling, when a whole family of the loons I had been listening to paddled up to my boat, looked at me with their red eyes, and sailed off again, calling with their eerie looney voices to others of their kind.

We did not spend that entire summer in isolation.  Keith and Martha managed somehow, despite Martha’s bulk, to conceive a child in a canoe in the middle of the lake.  Martha’s family was not at all happy about that situation and tried to make Keith pay for it in one way or another; but Martha was extremely pleased with having a child, and paid her family back by removing herself from their circle and arranging things with Keith so that he could be a father to his child, but that Martha retained her independence, which suited both of them perfectly.

Sandy and I had been friends and lovers already for a long time.  We were friends all the time, and lovers when both of us were between other lovers.  It worked out perfectly.  So on a day when my afternoon off began a bit earlier that usual, I took a canoe and high-tailed it over to Sandy’s camp, where he was basically alone except for Keith, who was working on the other side of the camp that day.

Sandy and I got to fooling around, and since there was a camp mattress in the cabin he was working on, we consummated our mutual desire in a most satisfactory way.  Afterwards, Sandy went for a dunk in the lake to clean up a bit, and I puttered about, naked as a jaybird, getting some lunch together.

There was a knock at the door.  Damn, thought I, I must have accidentally locked Sandy out.  So I unlocked the door and opened it.  There stood, not Sandy, but the owner of the camp, who took one look at me and turned his back, muttering inaudibly.  Then he opened his mouth and hollered, in his New Hampshire accent, SANDY? SANDY!  THEY-AH’S A NAKED WOH-MAN IN HE-AH!

Canoes.

Awaiting passengers.

Already home, nowhere to go.

A house boat chugs through the morning haze on Lake Vembanad. The day after rains in the area.

Lake Negratin is the third largest resevoir in capacity in Andalucía.  As well as a man made beach at Cortijo del Cura, it also provides eight-kilometres of naturism near Cuevas del Campo. The local area is ideal for walkers, runners and cyclists and is often used as a training area for those preparing for an ironman competition.  Swimming, water sports and fishing in the lake is wonderful and we spend most days in the summer out there with the canoes.

This blog post is just a random sampling of some of our pictures from our time there.  Later I’ll post again with some video and more information about the singing – it was interesting to see and participate in!

Kara and the girls enjoying the beach. A little rocky, but otherwise excellent:

Kids playing in a fishing boat by the shore.

Elizabeth LOVES exploring the beach and wading in to look for special rocks and shells.

Once everyone got over being shy, we had kids in our house nearly every afternoon:

Not the greatest picture, but here’s Elizabeth in Sunday School.

The inside of the church.  For being in a village, it is quite a large church building and the community is very proud of it.

The church is on a hill, and this is a view from the front of the church looking back towards the beach and our house (not visible).

Some of the best (and freshest) fish ever.  It may not look great to you, but don’t knock it until you try it!  Here it is chopped up and prepped for frying.

The local sawmill.  It was really nice to order wood for some shelves and to be able to pick out the lumber myself and have it cut to my specifications. This sawmill has to obtain government permission to cut trees, and they are given seedlings to replant in the areas where they chop down trees.

The kids playing in the field in front of our house:

Overturned canoes make great benches:

And toys:

That’s it for now!  Another blog post will be posted later about the singing tradition, batunjuk.

Canoes on calm waters of Lake Louise, Banff

]]> http://firaszphotography.wordpress.com/2013/01/12/canoes-by-the-river-bay/ Sat, 12 Jan 2013 07:11:45 +0000 Firasz http://firaszphotography.wordpress.com/2013/01/12/canoes-by-the-river-bay/ It’s another memorable evening almost near sunset,
when I walked over a long hanging bridge worthy for a photo-walk;
I saw many canoes moored by the river bay, with no boatmen…

Today’s images are of the canoes at Magic Lake. The colors of the canoes and natural composition caught my eye. It is interesting how a normal object can be so visually interesting.

Except that I am not a gym rat. Nor a fitness junkie.

I am just what I am.

Which is..

A person who is sometimes really into training for a marathon, or a triathlon, or a 5K; other times kind of in a rut, or focusing on other life aspects.

A very creative person who thrives on expressing herself through some form of art (writing is a form of art, hence the blog).

A wine connoisseur in her own right. I’ll try it and if I like it, I’ll gladly have some more. 

A coffee snob and proud of it. I don’t consider those half-steamed milk, sugar-free flavorings with froth and crap to be coffee. I want my freshly ground (at home) French Pressed (at home) with just the right amount of half and half (at home). No sugar usually. And I like to sip it out of a real mug, not a travel mug, because travel mugs are for people who are on the go or running late. And I like to enjoy my coffee sitting down, peacefully, with breakfast.

I like striped socks. I like stripes in general but I especially like striped socks. And I like wrist warmers. My sister made me a couple pair for Christmas and now I have three pair of them. I love them all.

I like bangs. And earrings. And fun nail polish. I like the way my jeans used to fit me before I had a muffin top. And oddly that reminded me that I really like haikus, because one of my favorite bloggers (Running Haiku) wrote a haiku today about just that. Seriously, take the 4 seconds to read it. She’s hilarious.

I love to quilt. Which probably falls under the creative person line above, but quilting isn’t necessarily about creativity for me but a craft that I take pride in. Make fun of me for hoarding an old lady habit. That’s fine. See you out on the course. I don’t watch TV. Instead I quilt.

I am a Libra and when I was young I learned that Libras were indecisive. So I grew up thinking I was indecisive. But as I have grown into a more knowledgable, educated adult I have learned that if I have any traits of a Libra, it’s that I am extremely balanced. Not meaning that I spend equal parts time working, playing, loving, exercising, writing, reading, cooking, etc. But that my balance is probably the drive behind this very post. That I feel obligated to write about fitness because my blog is titled TriKatyKid.

I will tell you this much: the blogs I like the most include snippets of the author’s personal life. So if you are looking for a 100% Fitness/Triathlon/Exercise blog, look elsewhere. Mine includes me too.

Maybe this is why I feel like I am not really a triathlete. Because triathletes eat, sleep, breathe training. And I know that I don’t. I know that I never will. If I can’t eat, sleep and breathe training now, how will I down the road when I am married with babies?

That’s fine by me. Because I am not Chrissie Wellington. Nor am I [insert some other female triathlete ranks and ranks below Chrissie Wellington who spends all her time training].

I am me.

I like Mickey Mouse.

I love cows.

I get excited when I realize my fridge is stocked with pickles.

I don’t buy Nutella anymore because I have no self control.

I sleep with a fluffy down comforter.

I love dogs, but have never had one to myself.

I am a Subaru. A Mac. An iPhone.

I love backpacking, canoeing, snowshoeing, hiking, XC skiing, exploring, camping, fly fishing.. I am an outdoorsy girl with a heart for adventure.

I like Sarah Jessica Parker. There’s something precise about her. She embodies the character she’s portraying, as an actress, and I respect that. But it’s more than that; she’s slender (very) and toned with beautiful hair, no matter the length. Her eyes speak with wisdom. And her voice is confident, yet soft. I think, if I were to meet Sarah Jessica Parker one day for lunch, she would chat with me as if we were old friends. I can’t imagine that she’s pretentious. Part of me wonders if she knows she’s famous.

She is the one and only reason I will dye my hair with Garnier Nutrisse.

I love to travel, and although I am living 3,000 miles from home, I don’t feel I travel often enough. I have visited over 28 US states, four countries outside of the US (including Canada). And I grew up with a mother who doesn’t drive. I’d say I’ve done OK.

I love to write and hope to someday (soon) write my first book. If I can get past the first book, I think others will come easy. It’s the fear, the self-scrutiny, fear of rejection, fear of failure, fear of commitment that’s holding me back.

I am slightly obsessed with watercolor. My eyes perk up when I see one, good or bad, detailed or brief. And most recently, I discovered a blog about a man and his watercolor. And it has prompted me to write this blog post. Because reaching out to him through WordPress made me feel like I was stepping across the wrong side of the tracks, and I didn’t like that feeling. There are no tracks. This is my blog. I set the rules.

Did I also mention that I absolutely love triathlons? I was drawn to running in my early teens and joined the XC team in high school. Great times. In college (also on the XC team), I had access to a swimming pool and though I was a terrible swimmer, I was so motivated to learn. And then there’s the bike. It’s sleek, fast wheels and tiny, narrow frame. The whole package called to me. What greater test of endurance than a three-sport race?

I never gave up till it happened. I learned to swim. I bought the bike. And here I am. And this is me. TriKatyKid. Striped socks, and everything else.

I hope everyone had a Merry Christmas. I’m very much enjoying the break and a little bit of time to finish sorting out my images from last summer in Canada. This one is from the same place as my last post (over a month ago!), Algonquin Park.

This was a particularly wet, rather cold morning. My brothers and I agreed we’d get up early unless the weather was bad. I decided it was bad, they didn’t and practically had to drag me out of my cabin! I got going quickly and here are the fruits of my labour.

So, these are the same canoes as my last post, but from a different angle. Which do you prefer?

Me, myself I… well, I can say I completed a whole calendar year of daily posts… I’ve written way in excess of 100 000 words… about the same an average full length novel. So, if I could have syndicated my dailies for a Euro a word I would have been the proud owner of a new car by now… imagine if I earned €5 a word… the mind boggles…

The little black job died… the new Nikon SLR arrived on the scene… what a pleasure! The camera has traveled well… walked and captured the whole length of the Grand Canal… apart from all the other fantastic shots I’ve been blessed with!

Talking of blessings… I was fortunate to start a full-time job on the 3rd day of January… after two years of unpaid work… well, you know what I mean… sitting at home writing between (real, paying) jobs…

We moved house… again… just for a change, to keep the habit going! Let’s hope the next move we make is from rental accommodation to our own place. The only way that may become likely is if I do get paid about €6 a word… even in these tight economic times we would need quite a few hundred thousand yo-yo’s to buy something we would call home… dream on, I hear you say. Yes, I will!!

So… to end off the year and in keeping with Sara’s year ending weekly photo challenge… I’ll post a gallery of a few of the thousands of photos I’ve taken this past year… I’ll place two or three per month… that will provide a few reminders of what I’ve been up to this past year. I hope you enjoy looking back… as much as I enjoyed taking the photos and sharing them…

(I have deliberated had and long on some of the photos… I’m afraid I may just have to do another ‘best of 2012′… until then… )

C’est la vie 2012… you were a good one!!

“What does it take to be a big dog in the whitewater kayak industry?”

Big Dog Kayaks is entirely dedicated to innovative whitewater design and as they enjoy their fourth year in existence, Big Dog Kayaks is still the UK’s fastest growing whitewater canoe and kayak manufacturer.

With ten boats on the market, from the super-smooth Karma squirt kayak to the sleek-creeking Force OC1 to the carbon-fibre Kaos Gen2 play machine, Big Dog Kayaks continues to push the boundaries of advanced boat design.

Entirely designed and manufactured in the UK, but reaching out across the world. Big Dog Kayaks is quickly spreading across Europe, they’re travelling as far a field as Japan, with sightings in Costa Rica and Ecuador. This year they’re also pushing forward into the North American paddling market.

“There’s a lot of difference between listening and hearing.”

With a keen eye for niche opportunities and grassroots development, Big Dog Kayaks is a company that hears the people who paddle their boats. Open boaters were successfully consulted in the new design and out-fittings for the extremely popular Force OC1. Carbon playboats were called for and carbon playboats came.

Listening to suggestions doesn’t just apply to team paddlers. Over the last three years Big Dog Kayaks has attended events, organised demo days and really opened its ears to the paddling population.

Big Dog Kayaks and North America?

To date, Big Dog Kayaks has trickled into North America, but with the introduction of Chris Smith (Frankie), this is set to change. Chris has paddled whitewater all over the world, including pioneering first descents in Madagascar and multi-day descents in Nepal. He is enthusiastic and motivated to show America the fun you can have in a Big Dog.

Chris launched Big Dog Kayaks at the Gauley Festival in 2012, where the kayaks and canoes received a lot of inquisitive admiration. Now based in Greenville, SC, Chris has a busy schedule of demo days and events to get more people experiencing and enjoying Big Dog kayaks and canoes.

Humble People, Big Dogs

Big Dog Kayaks has achieved an incredible amount in just three years, but it has also learnt a lot. And these lessons will be taken forward into the next three years of growth and development in whitewater design.

Thank you for reading and please take this as an open invitation to get in touch with Chris (chris@bigdogkayaks.com). Organise a demo day, ask questions, make suggestions and be assured and inspired that Big Dog Kayaks will continue with the simple aim of making the best whitewater boats available.

Online: check out the new website with updated product information, Team Blog news and Big Dog photo galleries, friend Big Dog Kayaks on Facebook and Follow them on Twitter.

Happy paddling,

Big Dog Kayaks

December 2012

I was born the son of an outdoor sportsman Father. He loved to hunt, fish, camp, and generally live off the land. Our ideas of ‘living off the land” were quite different mainly due to my idea being something along the lines of The Jetsons and his being something more like Grizzly Adams. For many years I thought we were homeless as we lived on KOA campgrounds in a tent. We really didn’t spend years camping. It just felt like it. Camping Time is like Dog years to me. Every hour spent in a tent is equal to one day in Doug-years. When I come to power one of my first orders of business will be ban all camping activities and close all of the camp grounds. I am aware that this will push the insane back out into public much like when the state mental hospitals closed but, the way I see it, these insane camping folk are more adept to living off the land and will do much better in the concrete jungle than the insane did.

Anyway, back to my off-the-grid childhood. This outdoor “man versus nature” trait that my Dad had passed onto my older brother but, thankfully, it left me alone. I got the Protect Nature trait which, I found, is best practiced by staying the hell out of nature and simply watching it from the comfort of a warm couch which is located not far from reliable indoor plumbing.

Growing up in The Swiss Family Morrissey was very difficult for me because, even though I was as useless as a library in an Appalachia School, I was still packed into the family truckster and hauled into the woods like 100 pounds of bear food. I’m pretty sure I was brought along largely due to a heavy dose of Parental Guilt. I certainly didn’t help matters by being as lively as a corpse at a bridal shower. I don’t think it was my fault though. Thousands of years of evolution provided me with safety and shelter from the elements and I felt that trying to reverse evolution and return to Caveman times was disrespectful.  The great early settlers of America suffered and died just to keep mankind going so that someday I could be toasty under a blanket, watching The Simpson’s on a flat screen TV, while eating microwave popcorn. It is out of respect for those brave souls that spent their days stinking to high heaven, eating elven bread, and emptying the contents of their intestine’s behind a bush, that I do not subject my own family to the horrors of outdoor survival.

Unfortunately, as noted above, my Father and Brother felt the need to deny evolution and test themselves against nature by transforming into the Donner Party for a few weeks every year. This was not the life for me. The only thing I have in common with the Donner Party is the desire to see California. If I had the misfortune of being born a Donner and thus trapped beneath the snow, I would have been the first person eaten. My Outdoor survival time is measured in seconds. Soap bubbles have a longer lifespan in a rose garden than I have in the woods. With this in mind, it’s easy to see why I made it my job on these Adventure Vacations to keep a signal fire dry and ready in case we needed to signal Gondor for reinforcements.

To keep our energy up in case we were attacked by angry rabbits or a group of Orc’s, we made these things called Mountain Pies. Mountain pies are made by placing two pieces of white bread into each side of the mountain pie maker. On one of the pieces of bread you would put whatever you want to be your filling. Our choices of fillings regularly included blueberries, cherries, pizza sauce and cheese, and baked beans, though it didn’t really matter what you picked because it always came out tasting like ash. Once you picked your filler, you would close the two sides of the Mountain Pie maker and thrust it into the coals of the fire and wait. In just a few short minutes you could pull it out and enjoy your burnt ash while somewhere off in the dark of night an animal stalked you. Ah, the magic of the outdoors. It really felt as though I was in the middle of an Occupy Wilderness Rally as we gathered around my large signal fire and “baked” these pies just like Grandma never made. As you can plainly see my Life of Pi was slightly different from the book and now movie. But, if you look closely, you will see that there are some similarities. Well, actually you won’t because I haven’t written it yet.

All of this forced labor Occupy Wilderness led to an unfortunate set of circumstances in a canoe one afternoon. Above all, my dad and brother loved fishing. Above all, I hated fishing. To them it was a chance to be one with nature and relax as they paddled the canoe to a quiet spot where they could sit and wait. To me it was a lot like sitting in traffic with a couple of fishing rods hanging out the car windows. Nobody talked and I was trapped and bored as sin. To alleviate my boredom, I would drift away into my imagination and end up playing Star Wars. I had some amazing battles with my imaginary Light Saber splashing at my enemies in the water. This never went over well because, as I learned over and over again, fish needed silence to be enticed into eating worms. I can understand this as worms are disgusting. But, in the big picture, fishing never made much sense to me. You spend half a day trying to get fish to do what they do normally, Eat. It’s like setting up a free sample table in a grocery and then dropping a net on anyone who takes a bite. I, being dumb, always had to bring up the point that it didn’t make any sense that we were sitting outside in a boat trying to catch fish that we would have to clean and prepare when there was a grocery store a few miles away that was full of fish that didn’t require any work to be done to them. Allow me to tell you that being logical never goes over well in a fishing boat.

Anyway, back to the family bonding fishing trip. After being told to sit still about 800 times I got bored. While I sat there gazing out on the water, wishing I was Jesus simply so I could walk across the water and back to the car, a motor boat passed by our boat and sent a relaxing rolling wake our way. I, being bored, decided to help this wake rock the boat and began leaning side to side. It took a moment or two for my father and brother to come out of their fishing trance and realize that it was me who was helping the wake make us one with the water. I was like Aquaman as I harnessed the power of the small wave while my dad and brother sat there helplessly holding on with scared looks on their faces.

There are small moments in life when you realize the opportunity for great innovations and inventions. At that moment when we were clutching onto the wrong side of the canoe after it flipped, I thought what a great idea it would be to make fishing gear that floats. I was amazed at how quickly it all sank to the bottom like a sack of rocks. My Dad (The professor) and the Captain (My Brother) stared at Gilligan (Me). This was the last boat trip I was invited on. So, in my eyes, it was a win win.

Fishing is not something I have ever missed. Fish, however, is something I do. To my limited knowledge, there is no fish substitute out there on the market. I can say this with confidence having put zero time into looking for a substitute. I have never looked for a very simple reason. I’m not sure faux fish would be appetizing to even the hungriest bear. The idea of faux fish is disturbing much like watching your grandmother being held down by the Easter Bunny while Santa Claus punches her in the stomach. That said, if some hippies made a batch of faux tortilla tilapia, I’d be on it like the Donner Party would be on a helpless rabbit who had hoped into the wrong hole. I love tortilla tilapia. Omaha Steaks makes a heavenly tortilla tilapia. Paula Deen has a recipe that will kill you but what a tasty way to die. My mouth is watering now just thinking about the crunch of the chips. Damn it.

Geniuses and Hippies of the world hear me now. We, as a society, have done some amazing (and amazingly stupid) things. We put a man on the moon. We let Jennifer Lopez think she can sing. We figured out how to shrink our stomachs so we wouldn’t be overweight even though it’s like curing a cavity with decapitation. We invented a method of fishing for carp using only our hands. So Geniuses and Hippies, I’m putting the idea out there now: If someone can come up with something that can cure my tortilla tilapia craving, I will gladly keep you in business and ensure you and your children and your children’s children will never have to live off the land.

I have scanned many internet sites for made in USA items especially clothing. Many of the Made in USA internet sites are a mixture of many different items, but they usually have a limited number of choices. I was looking up LL Bean to see if they had any US made crew neck sweaters. Sorry, but they don’t, however, they had another sweater made by Fall River. Plus they had some dress shirts made by the New England Shirt Company, and some twill pants made by Brooklyn Britches. LL Bean has many boots and many socks made in the USA to chose from as well as a few belts and hats.

New England Shirt Co.

Brooklyn Britches

Fall River

Kokatat Paddling Jacket

LL Bean
Bike Jersey

As you go to the site, under search you can type in “made in usa” and there are actually quite a few odds and ends that are made in the United States. Besides the above clothing, they have furniture, both indoor and outdoor,  camping gear, canoes, water bottles, bicycling carriers, tools, snowshoes and a lot of other outdoor gear. It made for a nice little search. Obviously, most of the items in LL Bean (like just about all stores in the US) are imported, but they do have some different made in USA items.

John and I were lucky enough to be in French Polynesia during Hawaiki Nui Va’a, which is an international canoe race championship. It happens once per year, and is the biggest sporting event of the islands. It’s a three-day outrigger extravaganza; 80+ sponsored canoe teams of 6 men paddle between two islands each day. The longest race day is from Taha’a to Bora Bora, over 68 kilometers (which is probably a LOT of miles). The resort had all sorts of special things planned, from event-related excursions to a ridiculously extensive tiny-food lunch display to a fantastic dinner buffet, featuring cuisine from around the world. So fun!

We had planned on trying to paddle out in sea kayaks to see the canoes go by. We learned that there was an excursion available where we could board a motor boat and follow the race from start to finish on day two. That day’s race started on Raiatea and ended on Taha’a. We wanted to be a part of this special local event, so we signed up!

The morning we left was simply gorgeous. Though there had been sporadic rain showers in the week that we’d been there, it was a sunny, blue day. Perfect for being on the water!

As we approached Raiatea, I started to realize that this was a pretty big deal. We paused at a dock to stock up on water and beer, and everyone AND their grandmother seemed to be in a frenzy to board a boat and get out on the water before the race began. Music was pumping from giant yachts and tiny motorboats. You could feel the excitement in the air!

Suddenly, we were moving, and there were colorful canoes everywhere- 87 total. The race had begun! As we cruised along the shoreline, I was more intrigued by the local people lined up to see the boaters than the actual race. They’d come out in droves. This was a BIG deal. The further out into the sea we went, the more this became apparent.

The men in the canoes were paddling with all of their strength. And they were FAST. I wondered how they could keep up this degree of effort for the entire race- they had miles and miles to go!

Motorized boats were literally everywhere. HUGE catamarans and sailboats and jet-skis. There seemed to be no traffic rules on the sea- boats were weaving in and out of each other’s paths, creating waves from their wakes for the racers. It was madness! When our guide opened the cooler and offered us a Hinano (Tahitian beer), we accepted. Cheers! It was, after all, just like the Superbowl!

We cheered for random canoe teams and sipped our beers and laughed with the other people on our boat. It was really the best people-watching experience ever, seeing boats of all shapes and sizes cruise by carrying people of all shapes and sizes. It was a blast!

Toward the end of the race, we pulled away from the massive crowd of boats. Nature called for a few of us, and the only option was over the side! In we went, giggling away. What a day.

The guide helped me back onto the boat quickly- it wasn’t very safe to be in the water, even off to the side of the race. As I dried off with a towel, John boarded the boat with wide eyes and a pale face. He held up his left hand.

It was bare.

“It’s gone. My ring. It’s gone!” As he’d reached up to grip the hand of the guide and board the boat, he’d felt his wedding ring slip off and go flying into the sea. There was nothing to be done. It wasn’t safe to be swimming around, and the water there was over 100 feet deep.

He’d worn that ring proudly…for just a week and a half.

Sympathetic eyes surrounded us on the boat. A few people offered their own stories of lost wedding rings, in support. We were quiet on the way back to the resort, thinking about our wedding day. There was no point in being angry or upset. Despite the sentimental attachment to the actual ring, it could be replaced. John rubbed his ring finger repeatedly, and I could see the grief on his face.

We had an incredible meal when we returned to Le Taha’a. The chef had turned out a feast of tiny food, everything imaginable. We poured wine and toasted the lost ring, now a sparkly decoration on the ocean floor, our thank you gift to the island of Taha’a for such an amazing trip so far.

And with that, we headed into the spa. We had a unique couples’ treatment scheduled. A scalp, hand and foot treatment was followed by a massage under the warm rain-like sprinkles of a Vichy shower. AMAZING. We sat on a private patio after the massage, sipping lemon water and soaking in the scenery.

We’d had so much adventure on our trip so far, and it was only halfway through. Sure, his wedding ring was now Tahitian fish food. But we’re married. And we don’t need a ring to prove that.

And you know I love a good story.

Next up: New digs and the end of an unforgettable trip!

*Read about the honeymoon so far HERE, HERE, and HERE.*

Hover your cursor over the individual photos to see the captions or click on any one of the pictures to see the large image… I hope you have as much fun viewings as I had doing the post! Enjoy your week…