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Grab That Plank, Mate

By Pat Harbine

When I was 35 my neighbor suggested we make a pair of kayaks to float a nearby river. I had recently moved from the plains of South Dakota and was fascinated by water that moved rather than lay stagnant in ponds and large reservoirs.

We soon had lumber cut for the frame of mine and I moved it to my garage to assemble the frame and stretch the canvas. When I had finished and painted mine he had lost interest but I was pumped.

The craft was seventeen and a half feet long, it had a large open cockpit suitable for 2 adults or myself and the three little boys who followed me everywhere. Light enough to cartop, it was soon plying the lakes and streams of the area. Although I had a few upsets the boat was stable and I felt very safe using it.

On one memorable weekend, I took it with me to visit my mother in Montana. She still resided at the family farm and the Clark Fork River was right in her backyard. It was flowing high and cold in the February thaw and carrying a large variety of flotsam on its surface. I watched as dead cows, logs, stumps and pieces of lumber, swept from upstream beaches, flowed by.

Paddling upstream on the inner bend of the river was an inviting idea so I paddled upriver in the giant eddy which allowed me to move far upstream and ascend a mild set of rapids. The boat was swift and the day warm. I had a minimal amount of safety gear consisting of two children's lifejackets. I paddled by large ice flows anchored to the bank as the water dropped and flirted successfully with the current, and then I saw it, a large beam, newly sawn, a 16 foot four by twelve. A valuable piece of lumber and although I no longer lived on the ranch I knew it could be useful.

My boat was designed so either end could be the bow or the stern, a painter rope drifted alongside me from its attachment on the bow. I made the plank fast and turned downstream towards home but the plank alongside restricted my stroke. I had no rope on the stern, but I knew if I could tow it my progress would be much better.

I had seen canoeists move about in their boats to change positions. Grasping the gunwales I slowly stood and began to turn so I could face the opposite end. The boat flipped so fast that I hardly could believe I had fallen overboard. Flipping the boat upright only let more water flow in and it was nearly submerged. Lifting my weight at one end buried the craft and grasping it in the middle caused it to roll like a "window shade". The riverbank and shore flew by and I realized I was in the main current heading for the wrong side of the river.

Untying the plank and swimming to one end I grabbed my paddle and began ferrying the boat to the near shore, a rocky point was near and then the river widened again. I pushed away from the boat and swam as my muscles began to tighten and my saturated clothes pulled me down. Just managing to catch the last rocky handhold I pulled myself up on to the shore and stood supported by my paddle to the obvious alarm of a young girl fishing only a few feet away. Seeing her motorcycle and hoping I could overtake the drifting boat, I asked for a ride. Her eyes widened as she vigorously shook her head, and who could blame her for refusing? On the road I could see the boat a few hundred yards ahead and I ran as best I could in my sodden clothes. The down-filled jacket that was too warm a few minutes earlier spilled water as I ran, my shoes sloshed clumsily on my feet.

Suddenly the girl and her motorcycle were alongside and she said I could get on behind her. The next worse thing to taking a swim in February is following it with a brisk ride on a motorcycle, but we were soon ahead of the boat which was further out than I imagined. A commercial pipeline bridges the river at a dizzying height and I was pondering my prospects of being able to cross it to the right side of the river when along came our cross-stream neighbors. Instantly recognizing my plight, although I had not, they insisted I ride to their house nearby.

I was soon in a hot bath sipping hot coffee while my lower jaw chattered out of control. When I came out dressed in the clothes of this small Scotsman whose shirtsleeves barely covered my elbows I was grateful that they had phoned to my mother on the far side of the river and she would take the 30 mile drive to get me. Two shots of high proof whiskey that these pious folks used for medicine calmed my shaking hands and we went to search for the lost kayak. Rounding a bend we found two men fishing it from the water. When I said it was mine, they reluctantly yielded their prize and glumly assisted us in loading it on top of the Volkswagen Bug.

We accepted the neighbor's invitation to supper and enjoyed a long overdue visit with these fine folk. On the way home I bit my lip as my mother lectured me on the subject of responsibility.