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Small, Shallow Thoughts
Nick Callanan attempts to amuse you
Why Can't We Be Friends?
So after guiding Kennebec and Penobscot raft trips for three summers Iíve finally mustered the balls to learn to kayak this summer.
This is related to todayís column by the fact that here and now (Somerset County in June) is the time that I must learn my roll if I
am to have any progress this summer at all. Unfortunately, Iíve never been one to pick up skills quick. Fact is, if you try to roll a ball
down my learning curve, it stops after about 3 feet and rolls right back at you.
Anyway, on June 1 at 8 in the morning I drove down the Carry Brook Access Road with one successful roll under my belt and a
head full of confidence (more from the three cups of coffee I had at breakfast than anything else). This was going to be my first solo
rolling session after four with spotters. I was nervous about that, but determined to make progress nonetheless.
I quickly changed into my river gear, grabbed my boat, helmet and paddle, and headed down the new Carry Brook access stairs. It
was about this time that the first black flies, pioneers scouting new territory no doubt, found me.
At the bottom of the stairs, next to the eddy, I got into my boat. As my fingers worked my skirt into place, more black flies joined
the all-you-can-eat party. They munched my neck and hands. I swatted at them and said out loud, ìGood morning, Shitheads.î But then
I thought, Theyíre just bugs, Iíll just ignore them and they wonít bother me. Yeah, right.
So I paddled out into the large eddy, trying to concentrate on visualizing my roll. I knew what I had to do, but until this day, there
had always been someone to help me flip back over in case I flailed.
This thought must have interfered with my focus under water, because after two failed attempts, I had to wet exit from my boat.
As I resurfaced I immediately realized that many, many more black flies had settled around me. A key clue: the sky around me had gone
completely black.
I stood up in the shallow water and began to swing my arms at the buzzing, creeping darkness. Eventually, my effort paid off and an
inch of light peeked through and I was able to corral my boat to shore. Now there was no mercy from the ruthless mob: Blood dripped
from hundreds of neck and facial bites onto the hull of my boat. I choked on, and subsequently swallowed, a cherry-sized mass of black
fly with every breath. Then, luckily for me, a family of very thin people from Massachusetts came down the stairs to gaze at the river, and
were chased, screaming, back up the stairs by a large faction of the swarm that had been attending to my blood removal.
I acted on this opportunistic distraction and foolishly redoubled my determination to practice rollingÖor swimming, whatever you
want to call it. I quickly fastened my skirt, but many, many black flies snuck down into the cockpit before I sealed it.
Paddling back into the eddy for another try, I couldnít help thinking about the itching sensations present all over my feet, all over
my legs and all over my prñ it was then the image of that kid in Stand By Me ñ crying, and absolutely horrified at the leeches in his
underpants ñ popped into my head and got me out of my boat and scrambling up the stairs. Iíd had enough.
On top, a ranger from the Allagash asked for a shuttle to the end of the access road and I agreed. She noticed all the blood dripping
from my body and offered muted sympathy.
ìThey seem to like you,î she said just before she hopped out at the intersection to meet her rafting party. I shrugged, but smiled
when not a single black fly left my truck to follow her.
ìYou bastards,î I said to the black flies in my truck.
Email nick [at] noumbrella [dot] com with your questions, comments and concerns.
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