I can row a boat... canoe?

One summer, many moons ago, I planned out a canoe-camping trip with my girlfriend of the time. I planned to canoe from the town of St. Stephen, down the St. Croix river, out into the bay, around the peninsula where the resort town St. Andrews sits in all its quaint, touristic hypocrisy, and then through the islands to my hometown of St. George (my area has no shortage of Saints). Depending on the tides, I figured it would take us a maximum of three days. So we packed up the boat on a beautiful Friday afternoon and set out down the river. We were making good progress, so when we passed a local campground I decided not to put in and continue on to an island I knew of instead. In retrospect, not the best decision.

About an hour went by, and as evening spread out across the sky, I noticed a bank of thick coastal fog massing over the opposite side of the channel. Could be trouble, I thought, and I was right. The fog was thick. Within another half an hour, I could no longer see the opposite bank. Soon I wouldn’t be able to see the bank I was following. I knew that if I tried to shoot into the channel to the island I was aiming for, I could easily end up drifting in the middle of the bay. The wind decided to join in the fun and that just about sowed it up. It was getting dark, the fog was thickening, and the sea was angry… yaaaar.

Through the fog, I glimpsed a light up on the shore. I yelled through the wind to my girlfriend in the bow, "We’d better try to pitch our tent in that farmer’s field!" We put in to shore, lugged the canoe up over the rocks and above the high tide level. I climbed up over the rock bluff and immediately started to curse. "What’s the matter?" asked the girlfriend. I made my way back down, "Well, this isn’t so much a farmer’s field as it is the St. Andrew’s Golf Course!" I was frustrated. I threw myself down on the rocks as the wind started to pick up. The St. Andrew’s Algonquin Resort’s golf course is one of the top courses in the country. It caters to high-end tourists with extravagant green fees local golfers could never afford. "Screw it," I said, and pitched my tent in the rough of the third hole.

The storm raged and pummeled us all night long. Sleep was not forthcoming. At 6 AM, I stumbled out of the tent in my underwear to water the green. As I relieved myself, a golf ball soared over my head and landed in the gulley in front of my tent. It was early, it was raining… I had underestimated the determination of golfers. I had picked a spot that was somewhat sheltered for the tent, so it wasn’t immediately visible from the fairway. I jumped back in the tent as I heard someone crest the hill looking for the ball. "Larry!" I heard in a thick Boston accent, "There’s a Gawd-Damn tent down he-ah!"

We decided that maybe it was best to pack up the tent. The wind was still gusting. I looked out to sea and saw whitecaps rolling in to shore between five and ten feet high. I knew there was no way we could continue in the canoe. Setting out in waves taller than you are in a craft you can carry on your shoulders is never the best of plans. So we were stuck. We dug the cell-phone out of the waterproof bags and called mother. There’s nothing quite like setting out on an adventure and having to call you mom for help. Mom knew the area and thought there might still be a road down beside the golf course to come pick us up. We dragged the canoe up onto the third hole, across the green, and set it down beside a bench on the cart-track.

We sat and waited to see what Mom would come up with, sporting life-jackets, bandannas and shorts on the premiere golf course of the province. As time passed, more and more golfers walked by us, some looking bemused, some looking peeved that commoners had infiltrated their domain. Finally one golfer paused, looked at the boat lying on the lawn and said, "How’s the canoeing?" I had an answer prepared, "Oh, par for the course I suppose." He nodded and chuckled and then gaped over our shoulders as my mother came around the corner in the family van, driving down the golf cart track. I laughed out loud, don’t get in my mom’s way! I pictured golf carts forced into the ditches and golfers diving for safety. We loaded up the canoe and put an end to one of the strangest canoe trips I’d ever experienced. The friendly golfer even helped us pack up a bit before he shook his head and continued on with what was I’m sure, one of the strangest golf games he’d ever experienced.