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Gee, thanks, Wally. You always were a peach. We go way back together, Wally and I. Way back to Christmases at Grandma’s house where Wally always somehow contrived to knot my braids together behind my back. I’d pop him for it and we’d always have the most glorious row. Wally’s attitude towards women never did mature much beyond that stage, which is one of the reasons he has remained such a cantankerous old bachelor to this very day.

It’s nice to hear him publicly confess to having ulterior motives whenever he "offers" me an "opportunity". I’ve long since learned to ask myself "What’s in it for him?" before accepting any invitation from Wally. Like that time he invited me to go sea kayaking with him in the Apostles. All he wanted was someone to help him muscle that big barge of a homemade kayak around. He can’t handle it by himself, you know. Don’t know what possessed him to make that thing a tandem to begin with!

Good thing we had good company on that trip. Ed and Liz joined us for the week. They’re such a nice young couple, all sweetness and light; the perfect counterpoint to the persona Wally and I project. And between the two of them, they pack away more paddling experience than you’d guess from their age. So it was good to have them along.

Liz had a little surprise for us when we met in Bayfield to finalize our route and get our permits. Turns out she was sitting on the nest, so to speak, this trip. She and Ed had reached that juncture in their lives when, thenceforth and forever after, all time would be divided into their BC (Before Child) and AD (After Delivery) eras. Nothing would ever be the same again.
This trip was their farewell to carefree travel. It was a good time for them to go. Liz was smack in the middle of her second trimester. She was past the pukey part and feeling pretty good. And while neoprene only stretches so far, her wetsuit could still accommodate five months worth of Bulgy Baby, even if it was quite a squeeze. Her only request to us for accommodating her altered state was that we keep the crossings short this trip. Eating for two may have its own limited rewards but fluid management for two is an entirely different story. Short crossings and frequent landfalls would be an easy and relatively painless tactic for easing the maternally challenged bladder.

Wally, of course, big bonehead that he is, didn’t quite get the gist of this conversation. Either that or he belongs in a group home for the Terminally Insensitive. Because the ornery old coot went and got our permits written for Sand, Devils, Outer (two nights, what a saint!), Michigan, and Oak. As if those 14 to 16 mile crossings would count as short to anyone in dire need of frequent retreats to the ladies’ room (or any reasonable semblance thereof). It’s not easy being a long-distance traveler when you’ve got a fidgety fetus poking you in the bladder with a stray elbow or foot at odd intervals and dreadfully inconvenient times.

Liz was doubtful she would be able to manage those distances at one sitting. But as long as we promised to let her latrine hop from island to island, she promised she’d give it a go.

Almost immediately, Wally tried to renege on his part of this bargain. Second day out, we had to cross the fourteen miles from Sand to Devils Island into a brisk headwind and two to three foot waves, in and out of patchy fog. Somewhere over the Sand Island Shoal, Wally decided we needed to take a compass bearing and make a beeline for Devils. Liz politely reminded him that she needed to make a pit stop on York. Wally, being a card-carrying member of the Nonbenevolent Brotherhood of Headstrong Mules, stated flatly that York was far too far out of our way and insisted that we all press on regardless to Devils.

This is where Wally discovered two things. First of all, sweetness and light doesn’t necessarily translate into stupid and submissive. And secondly, leadership is a position one loses, de facto, when no one else is willing to follow you. Of necessity, Liz turned her boat toward York Island and Ed followed her. Eventually, with a little gentle persuasion from his bow woman (who was clearly in sympathy with the oppressed here), Wally followed suit, muttering sotto voce imprecations the whole way.

Trying to regain some semblance of Command, Wally insisted we go all the way around York to land leeward on the sand spit instead of on the windward (and closer) beach by the established campsites. He was worried we would not be able to launch again into the surf. Talk about way out of our way! Liz barely made it. And it must be darned hard to paddle a kayak in waves with your legs crossed.

By the time Liz hit the beach on the sand spit and had extricated herself from her cockpit, that phrase, "You go, girl!" had taken on an entirely new and urgent currency. Who knows what agonies she had to endure back in the mosquito-haunted woods trying to disentangle herself from the far too intimate embrace of clammy neoprene which was being tested to the maximum of its resiliency to begin with. But she was calm and composed, serene even, and clearly relieved when she returned to the beach. She was ready for the next leg of the journey.

Wally again tried to press on regardless to Devils. But maternity imposes its own necessities on even the most orderly and disciplined of lives. Liz only made it to Bear Island before she needed to commune with the flora once again. Wally figured it should take her next to no time to scramble up the steep, western shore of Bear, water the woods, and return to the business of boating. So he kept right on paddling toward Devils. But a work slowdown in the bow kept him from travelling too far ahead of the others.

We did make it to Devils Island before dark . . . but just barely. As darkness fell and the tents went up, a light finally went on somewhere in the dim recesses of Wally’s brain. His private agenda for a grand tour of the entire archipelago just wasn’t going to fly this trip. We needed a more modest and enjoyable itinerary. And he can’t say he wasn’t forewarned.
I have to give the man credit where credit is due. And that’s not in just too many places, so it won’t take me long. Having realized the error of his ways, Wally did take the personal responsibility for marching up to the lighthouse the next morning and having the NPS volunteer radio in to get our permits rewritten. He even got it right this time. For the rest of the trip we had short, manageable crossings with lots of intermediate stops for universal leg stretching, maternal bladder relief, and general acquiescence to the unreasonableness of babies . . . even before they’re born. But a little active and empathetic listening at the outset would have saved him the trouble, the obstinate, old cuss.

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Yeah, well, I like you about that much, too, Clarice. Funny, I don’t remember it that way at all. Guess a fella should be more careful who he turns his typewriter over to. Well anyway, ‘til next time, keep your paddle wet. And keep in touch. Drop me a line c/o Rich Furman and Morgan MacBain, 901 East Geranium Ave., St. Paul MN 55106 or editor@canoe-kayak.org. Let me know if you have any stories that it would be better for Clarice to write. (I’ll try to retain more of my editorial rights next time, in self defense.) Remember, Uncle Wally promises to (this means you, too, Clarice) 1) tell the truth so no one would ever believe it anyway and 2) never reveal your true identity to anyone, not even your local chapter of the La Leche League. In the mean time, I gotta go try to dig up some dirt on Clarice. Bye, now!