The Lost Kayak of Lower Saint Regis

As a kid, water terrified me. My dad would haul me past the breakers, insisting I float on my back like a blissful otter. I sank like a paranoid rock. Summer camp didn’t help—sure, the watermelon and bug juice were great, but compulsory swimming felt like a slow-motion nightmare. 

Fast-forward to college. I needed PE credit, and my gym instructor—cheerful in that gym teacher sort of way—announced a canoeing class. After we were paired off, I ended up with Art, a lanky kid with a blond afro. Late to the line, we were handed a sleek two-man kayak. Gliding across the lake felt amazing…until Mr. Gym shouted, “Time to swamp your boats!”

Art hissed, “Don’t swamp this thing—it can’t float!” But rules were rules. We flipped, scrambled back in, and got a barked, “DO IT AGAIN, THIS TIME WITH WATER!” The kayak went down like a stone. 

The next week, the National Guard appeared with sonar, scanning the lake like they were hunting Soviet subs. The kayak and Art both vanished—he dropped out, presumably before the bill arrived. I passed the class, though my grade never recovered. Neither did that kayak.

The next week, the National Guard showed up in a helicopter and dropped sonar into the lake, carefully probing the bottom like they were searching for a Russian submarine. This happened multiple times that summer. Probably incorporated into a training exercise. Mr. Gym gave us a passing grade, but not a great grade. We had another class with him, and he stuck with volleyball, basketball, and never mentioned that kayak. Our grade never improved, but I got the credits I needed. Poor Art dropped out after that summer, never to be seen or heard of again. I don’t know if they made him pay for the boat or if Mr. Gym had his pay garnished. He disappeared the following semester, like that, kayak never to be seen again.