Boatin' to maturity by Elmore Holmes September, 2004      If you've been reading this column for a while, then you know that I started canoeing at summer camp.      The camp I attended wasn't any specialized canoeing camp. It was just a general camp for boys, offering all the activities you might expect to find at summer camp: archery, arts and crafts, hiking, swimming, and so on. I actually favored riflery and horseback riding for several summers before I caught the paddling bug.      At this camp, personal development was (and still is) more important than becoming an expert in any particular activity. Each activity was simply a vehicle for personal growth, and it was up to each camper to choose his own path toward maturity. The camp's mission statement featured a three-point philosophy: simplicity of life, self-reliance, and human relations.      Having spent thirteen summers as a camper and counselor at the camp, I'd say that my experiences there have a lot to do with the person I have become.      Much of what I learned at camp came from having to cooperate with fellow campers and counselors, assuming positions of responsibility for other people, stuff like that. But a paddler is a big part of what I have become, and here I shall attempt to list a few of the ways in which this sport has helped me embrace the ideals of simplicity of life, self-reliance, and human relations.

Elmore's columns appear monthly at the Outdoors, Inc.,website: www.outdoorsinc.com

     The very nature of paddling begs one to keep things simple. It's difficult to carry weighty outside concerns in the boat with you; you're much better served by leaving those concerns on the bank and letting the river carry you away.
     These days, simple is what I am. I'm not on the fast track to the executive suite of some big company. I don't drive a particularly nice car or live in a spacious suburban home. So far I've managed to get along without the trappings of 21st century life--things like a cell phone, text messaging, high-speed online connection, and multiple lines of credit.
     One could make an argument--a compelling one, in fact--that I'm just a shiftless layabout. Our society draws a fine line between being a satisfied soul living a simple life and just being a loser with no life, and I'm sure some people would have a pointed opinion as to where I fit.
     But my argument is that I'd simply rather be on the water, and I'm sticking to it. Actually, I relish all kinds of simple pleasures, such as the taste of fresh fruit, the cool breeze as another stifling Memphis summer gives way to fall, and the songs of the birds in my backyard. But to me, nothing is more symbolic of simple pleasure than paddling my boat.

     In the early days of river-running in this country, up until the mid-1970s, boats and gear were not widely commercially available. And so, paddlers made their own.
     Even back in those pre-Internet days, paddlers managed to find technical information on such materials as canvas, aluminum, and fiber-reinforced plastics, and they set about building their own boats. They also sought out neoprene rubber from which they could sew their own sprayskirts, and other fabrics for "comfortable" paddling clothes. For cold-weather clothing, wool socks and sweaters were the standard.
     By the time I started paddling in the early 1980s, manufacturers had developed lower-maintenance boats of polyethylene plastic. More sophisticated accessories like spray pants and jackets and synthetic thermal wear were coming on the market. But the sport had not lost its spirit of self-reliance. Even with an idiot-proof plastic boat, a paddler had to get a block of minicell foam and a can of contact cement and tinker with his outfitting until the boat suited his body type and paddling style.
     When I started racing, I discovered that a working knowledge of fiber-reinforced plastics remained essential, for any racer worth his salt knew how to repair a broken boat. I groped about for all the secrets to good handiwork, and early on my results were less than impressive. But with practice, my patches became smoother, my outfitting more elegant.
Soon, I began to realize why paddling is such a great sport for a cheapskate like me: whenever I needed a new piece of equipment, I began thinking, "Shoot! I don't need to go buy that--I can make one!"
     Later, I would take up woodworking, and not only did my boat and equipment repair skills lend themselves directly to this new vocation, but furthermore they instilled in me incredible confidence--confidence that I really could take raw materials and make things that are both attractive and functional, and confidence that a credit card transaction need not be the gateway to everything I need.

     The very survival of our species depends on successful "human relations," or cooperation, to use a less-jargonistic term. Cooperation with friends and neighbors can be gratifying and delightful. It can also be challenging and exasperating.
     I'm only half-joking when I say that going out in my boat allows me to escape dealing with other people for a while. The introvert in me relishes the ability to paddle off someplace where nobody is likely to bother me.
     But no individual, no matter how wealthy, powerful, or otherwise self-sufficient, is greater than the aggregate value of the human race. The fact is, people need each other, and paddlers are no exception.
     Paddlers must cooperate among themselves--it takes at least two to run a shuttle, for instance, and paddling in a group is always a good idea on a difficult or remote river.
     But even more important than cooperation with one's own kind is cooperation with those who are different. For paddlers, this means cooperation with the "muggles" (the non-paddling population). Whether we like it or not, access to the water, law enforcement on the water, clean water regulation, wilderness management, the relicensing process for dams, and popular opinion in general are controlled by and large by muggles. As a minority, paddlers must promote their sport not by brute force but by building consensus.
     This lesson has served me well in other aspects of life. My career as a high school teacher was a constant process of give-and-take, not only with students but also with administrators, who tended to be every bit as needy. Having moved into a new house last December, I now face the challenge of being an ethnic minority in my neighborhood, and so far the cheerful diplomacy that I learned over years of trial and error in paddling circles has been indispensable.

     So, paddling boats has rewarded me with personal growth. But as my friends and family constantly remind me that I have yet to complete the process, I'd better stop writing and go paddle some more.