Voyage on the Connecticut (page 13)
"Hey, you know, we got showers. Go ahead and use them,” said Ernie. “The restroom has everything you need, hair dryer, whatever. You got the access code, right?"
So it was settled. I thanked him profusely and got his address so I could send him and Chris a copy of my book. It did indeed rain hard that night, with cascades of water beating against the great plastic cocoon in which I snuggled in perfect comfort and safety.
As I lay celebrating my marvelous deliverance from camping woes, my freshly-showered body luxuriating against the silky nylon of the sleeping bag, I found my antagonism toward power boaters dissolving. Not again shall I raise my paddle in anger as a powerboat hurtles by. It might just be Ernie!
The next morning, I tackled the last three miles to Old Saybrook. A nasty south wind, right in my face, picked up as I passed under the majestic six-lane I-95 bridge. When I reached the railway bridge half a mile further—the last bridge over the Connecticut—ocean waves were coming at me, some of which were breaking. I rigged my informal rain skirt, which keeps out some of the water in wet conditions, and pulled for a row of houses a mile ahead. It began to rain, hard pellet-like drops, and the wind blew wave tops into the kayak, thoroughly soaking me with the ocean’s salty water. The adverse wind and waves cut my speed to less than one mph, and I couldn't pause for even a second’s rest without losing precious distance. After an hour of vigorous pulling, I reached a little bay and moored at someone’s dock. That last mile was surely the toughest workout of the whole trip.
I cut across a lawn and headed for the center of town to see about lodging. On my way, I came upon an Episcopal Church whose bells were loudly ringing for the 10 AM service. A man at the door urged me to enter and, seeing a useful way to rest out of the rain, I accepted his invitation. I was a mess, my hair a wet, plastered mat, and my rain jacket dripping. I found I could use the red velvet cushion of the pew to blot my pants; every few minutes I would subtly shift my bottom a few inches over. By the end of the service, my pants were nearly dry and the pew was soaked.
I was invited to coffee afterward in the social hall where, despite looking like a homeless person, or perhaps because I looked like a homeless person, I was treated with an outpouring of generosity. Two parishioners offered rides to wherever I needed to go, one invited me to his home. One asked if I needed money! The priest urged me to sleep in the church basement that night; he would arrange it with the custodian, he said.
As I say, the Connecticut is an amazingly friendly river. Go paddle it, and if you happen to forget your kayak, don’t worry. There’s undoubtedly someone there who’s willing to lend you one.