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There
is a big wooden building that sits near a small stretch of sandy
beach, across the street from the ferry dock, down by the water.
It has two huge, sliding doors and, except for its bright yellow
paint, it might almost be mistaken for an old barn. It’s where
fishermen used to pack their catch in barrels, and where they’d
hang fishing nets up to dry and repair. Now it’s where an outfitter
stores their sea kayaks when they are not out on trips on the
Great Lakes. And it’s also where you, when you’re a guide, first
meet the clients who pay for big-water adventures. “The Barn,”
as the guides call it, is a chaotic place to be at 8:00 on a
summer morning.
Inside,
the Barn is divided into two sections—one area with racks and
shelves and workbenches for boat storage and repair, and the
other for checking in customers and displaying retail goods
like paddling jackets, hats, sunscreen, synthetic underwear,
water bottles and logo t-shirts. On a busy morning, you and
eight other guides will be scurrying back and forth between
the two areas, gathering and checking kayaks, spare paddles,
paddle floats, bilge pumps, spray skirts, first aid kits, VHF
radios, tow belts, survival kits and shore lunches, while at
the same time glancing at dot matrix printouts containing boat
lists and trip rosters, awaiting impatiently, often anxiously,
the arrival of the customers.
“Hello,”
you call to the bewildered-looking couple with matching white
shorts standing tentatively in the doorway. “You folks here
for a trip?”
“Do
we pay you for the parking?” the woman asks from behind her
twelve-dollar gas station sunglasses.
“The
lot outside is owned by the ferry line,” you answer for the
third time this morning. “You pay at the little blue booth across
the street.”
Michael,
a guide from Milwaukee, emerges from behind a partition that
encloses a small office in the back of the building.
“What’s
the weather supposed to do today?”
“Northwest
winds, ten to twenty. Waves two to four. What trip are you doing?”
Michael
laughs. “Sea Caves,” he says. That’s the most popular trip,
but with ten novice paddlers and a little too much wind, it
can turn hairy, fast.
“Oh,
man,” you say.
“Yeah.”
Michael raises an eyebrow at you, rolls the top of a dry bag
and buckles it shut, then steps through the doorway into the
room where the boats are kept.
You
reach under the wooden counter and pull out a white, legal-sized
form with lots of small print. “Acknowledgement of Risk,” it
says on top, with a bunch of little spaces for signatures. You
write, “Guide:” and then your name in the upper right-hand corner
of the sheet, and slide it to the other side of the counter.
It’s 8:38, but none of the people on your roster have shown
up yet. You look over your equipment list for the fourth time
and try to remember what it is you’ve forgotten. You start to
wonder if this part ever gets any easier.
“Morning,
Sarge! How are ya?” It’s Kevin, a smiley, ultra-suave grade-school
teacher from Minneapolis. He’s got the summer off and is up
here to be a guide, work on his tan, and to seek refuge from
the female “friends” he’s made in the Twin Cities. He calls
you Sarge because of the drill-sergeant tone your voice takes
when you’re yelling instructions over the white noise of the
surf. You call him Captain Charisma—it seems to fit him well.
“Hey,
Cap’n! I’m doing all right. You?”
“Fan-tabulous.
Had a hot date with this blonde from my Poplar Island trip yesterday.
Ate some pasta, drank some red wine . . . .” He looks at the
ceiling and smiles, remembering. “Yeah, nice. Hey, what trip
are you doing?”
“Paynes
Creek this morning. Then a Safety Course in the afternoon.”
“All
right. Have a good time!” Kevin ducks in back, probably to check
one of his six e-mail accounts. He is a popular guy.
By
9:00 a.m. all of your clients have arrived, signed the form,
and are climbing awkwardly into their rented wetsuits and PFDs.
You breathe easily, watching them. Soon, you’ll all be on the
water, gear stowed, and you’ll be teaching paddle strokes and
wet exits. Yes, you’ll soon be on the water, and then it’ll
all be okay.
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