Both loyal readers remember that last week’s column was a bit of a departure from the usual fare of this corner.   The column was basically the eulogy to my first and favorite hunting dog and reader response was overwhelming.  Reader comments were very gratifying, especially when you consider that the column was simply hammered out in one sitting, a kind of free-form poetry from the outdoors and  the heart.

This week, I am in a similar situation, though I am the only person in mourning.  Alas, yesterday saw the sale and disposal of my beloved whitewater kayak.   Before you stop reading and turn the page to the classified ads, let me explain.

The kayak was bought several years ago in a fit of annoyance when my long-suffering spouse had laid down some silly domestic law, such as “you can’t go frog hunting, we have a funeral to attend” or “little Timmy’s operation is today, you can’t hike the Appalachian trail!”   Somewhat upset, I did the only thing a responsible adult would do: I purchased an $850 toy on our credit card.

Looking back, it is apparent that the kayak was really the symptom of something far more insidious.  It was the first warning sign of an impending extra early mid-life crisis.  This realization came somewhat as a shock in light of the fact that I consider myself the world’s oldest living 14-year-old boy.  However, all the warning signs were there.

A midlife crisis is that time when otherwise responsible men suddenly decide that everything they have saved and built in their life is meaningless and they suddenly run away to Cancun with a high school cheerleader.   Sometimes they even buy sports cars or a loud motorcycle in an effort to assure the world that they are indeed still a major player on the international stud scene.  Striking anywhere from 35-50 years of age, this affliction has no known cure aside from a strong whomp to the head with a police baton.

In my particular case, a reasonably normal male in his mid-thirties decided that he would leave his family and home for uncounted weekends to drive into the wilds of the southeastern United States to risk drowning in an expensive boat made of the same material as plastic margarine tubs.   Considering this activity only took place while the practitioners are cold, wet and muddy, there is obviously some type of psychological malfunction at work.

The kayak did gain me acceptance, however marginal, into that secret world of river runners who glide effortlessly from eddy to eddy, slashing through the wildest waves and act really cool in front of the rafting tourists at the takeout.  I discovered that river guides and other serious paddlers would actually include me in discussions of arcane topics such as Reaction Waves and Boofing (an actual river-running technique, not a prevalent felony in West Virginia).

Unfortunately, I never realized that I was a square peg in a free-form hole.  Most kayakers are slightly built, in their late teens or early twenties with long hair and Lord knows which body parts pierced.   I was older, with seriously short hair and no unnatural holes in my body.   My allusion of being part of the crowd was shattered the day somone at the put-in said something to the effect of ‘Nice boat.  That model works really well for you older and pudgy guys’.  It was the beginning of the end of the dream.

Now we flash forward to yesterday, when I took my kayak for it’s last ride to a new owner.  I found myself amazed at the depth of my emotion as I patted the cool plastic resting under my arm in the van.   Material objects have never attracted my affection like they do with some people.  I have never cared much about my cars or guns, reserving affections for living things that either wash my socks or slobber and retrieve downed game.  However, I was actually almost overcome with emotion as I took the giant Tupperware Body Container from my van into the new owner’s garage.

While I mourned the loss of my boat, I realized that it was actually the death of a dream that had me so glum.   With the sale of the kayak, it drove home the point that I was getting older and would never again be young and free of shackles, free enough to ride the river every day if I chose instead of worrying about mortgage payments and gum disease.   In a sense, it was the passing of one man’s second childhood.

Now freed of a silly adult-adolescence, it is time to look toward the future and make a responsible choice: acquire a third childhood.  I have been looking at some really neat ultralight airplanes…

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