Forget about 3 people in a canoe on a river or in a loaded canoe.
Tis the scrimshaw of indiscriminate traveler.
Vestiges in vinyl or bit of gel-coat unraveler.
But amassing rip riparian shall never get older,
when solid-hull frothy journey is forever gettin’ boulder.
and…
There’s some Baltimore gneiss,
not always play’n nice,
that a time-or-two-or-twenty
'bout near keeled me with its slice,
and Potomac pot rocks peppered
my Mr. Henry gel-coat armor,
like some furrowed Prospector’s face,
she’s a bit gnarly but still my charmer.
Oh. And my one-year owned Northstar B16 in IXP, carrying moi and a semi-stable stable of canine associates, itself beginning to “scrimshaw” up with Allegheny shale shimmies, and Patapsco leveraged ledges, is a mighty fine hull, indeed! Sometimes I wish she might have come in under 60 pounds on the scale, as I begin to resemble some sort of Kokopelli wilted cuneiform in my later years, stumbling my takeout portage to the roofrack. Bit strange, too, since I paddle her mostly bow-seated-backward, with that lower stern shear (about 2") leading the way. But then, with a 58-lb. and 68-lb. dog ahead, maybe I’m able, especially in headwinds, to swing that prow about a tad easier because of it?
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And Northstar will be kind enough to sell you & I a quart or so of resin when the palimpsest of scrimshaw becomes beyond readable.
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