Photo courtesy of Old Town
“We are not defenseless against COVID-19. Cloth face coverings are one of the most powerful weapons we have to slow and stop the spread of the virus … All Americans have a responsibility to protect themselves, their families and their communities.”
—Dr. Robert R. Redfield, director of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention, July 14, 2020
“Need a hand?”
The voice startled me, and I wheeled around in a manner that might have suggested a defensive posture that was neither intended nor needed. I’ve been a little jumpy lately. We all have.
“Thanks,” I said with an unintended but clearly audible grunt. “But I got it.”
He helped anyway, grabbing the bow hand grip and marching up the slight incline toward the parking area. It’s really a one-person job, and I had trouble hiding my annoyance.
By the time we reached my gently used, recently purchased, new-to-me Subaru, my helpmate was laboring for breath. The Old Town Sportsman AutoPilot 120 kayak we were pulling weighs nearly 130 pounds fully rigged, which this one was. The battery adds about another 50 pounds.
It was a sweltering summer evening in rural Anderson County. We were both sweating profusely. Fishing had been spotty—mostly bluegill, but I had one bass that was a solid 2 pounds; they all went back into the lake to be caught another day. I unlocked the car, opened the rear hatch, and pulled two bottles of water from the ice chest. The ice had melted, but the water was still cool. I also reached toward the console for my face mask, then handed my helper a water bottle. I looped the mask over my right ear and let it hang freely while I gulped the water.
My helper was about my age with salt-and-pepper hair and a couple of days’ worth of beard that hinted of the same color scheme. He was dressed in jeans and sneakers with a Disney T-shirt that didn’t quite meet the needs of his oversized belly.
He looked at the Subaru like it was a Mars rover, then at the Sportsman AutoPilot 120, the newest and most techno-savvy of the Old Town fishing kayak fleet. It is 12 feet long and 36 inches wide, has a removable seat, uses an iPilot GPS-aided directional system, is powered by a 45-pound thrust Minn Kota trolling motor, and comes with a $3,800 price tag. I had it on media loan.
“How do you haul it?”
“I put it on the roof.”
“Ain’t it too heavy for that?”
It is. But when the motor, battery and seat are removed, the weight drops to about 100 pounds, making it manageable. I normally would have hauled it in the bed of my truck, but I had just purchased the Subaru and wanted to drive it.
“Well, yeah, it’s a little heavy for the roof rack. But doable.”
I removed the seat, which slides into a track that makes it adjustable for paddlers of various heights, then released and removed the 24-pound motor from a spring-loaded latch. The battery is anchored in a molded box under the seat. The boat comes pre-wired, so everything is plug and play. My helper grabbed the bow handle and started to hoist it onto the rear of the car. I stopped him.
“I have a little method to it,” I said while unrolling a thin rubber mat and placing on the top of the rear hatch. The mat prevents scratches. But it also provides the bow of what often is a wet and muddy boat a secure resting place while I hoist the rear and slide it onto the rack.
I grabbed the bow handle and lifted. My helper put his shoulder under the boat, and it suddenly seemed to defy gravity. We soon had it secured. I removed my mask and drained what little was left in the water bottle.
There wasn’t an ounce of breeze. The evening’s heat seemed to intensify.
“I thought this would be over by now,” my helper said. He meant the pandemic. He gestured toward the sweat-stained mask I had in my hand. “I got one in the truck but don’t wear it most of the time. Do wear it some, though.”
I considered my response.
“It probably helps,” I said while looping the straps around my ears and fitting it to my face. “I think it does help.”
I put the motor, battery and seat in the car along with my fishing gear. No one was going to change anyone’s mind about wearing masks here.
“Thanks for the help.”
“You’re welcome.” He stepped forward and extended his hand. I shook it. Courtesy sometimes exceeds CDC guidelines.
Readers may contact Gary Garth at editor@kentuckymonthly.com