The first trick to rolling a kayak is learning not to panic

I open my eyes and look up, where my legs and rear end float serenely above me. Somewhere up there, too, is the paddle in my hands. I know I’m supposed to swing it around in front of me, flick my hips, and pull my head out of the rushing waters of the Gull River, but I can’t seem to think how. With a sigh that is — given my underwater state — more metaphorical than actual, I tap twice on the hull of the kayak, a sign to my instructor that I need help, once again. As I see the bottom of his kayak pull up beside mine, I grab the bow, pull myself upright and wonder again just what I’m doing here.

It started with an offhand remark. We sat around the boardroom table in our weekly story meeting, sipping coffee and talking about the Bucket List series in the Muskoka Sun. “You know what I’ve always wanted to do,” I said, idly. “I’ve always wanted to know how to roll a kayak.”

Two days later, editorial co-ordinator Kim Good told me she’d made me an appointment with Neil Ross of Algonquin Outfitters Boatwerks. He could teach me how to roll anywhere, he said, but if I wanted to run whitewater, I really should meet him in Minden.

Located 70 kilometres east of Bracebridge, Minden is home to one of Ontario’s best whitewater play spots. A mix of man-made and natural structures, the Minden Wild Water Preserve has seen some of the world’s best paddlers challenge its eddies, holes and slides. Earlier this summer, it was the scene of the North American whitewater canoe championships.

It’s also one of the best places in Ontario to learn whitewater, says Scott, an assistant at Boatwerks, as he fits me out with a paddle, boat, spray skirt, PFD and helmet. Unlike the Ottawa River and other big waters, he explains, the Gull River has plenty of smaller features where beginners can learn techniques without serious consequences if they fail. “Of course,” he adds cheerfully, “you’ve still got to be careful.” He then tells me about a woman who tried to swim down the Otter Slide, and gashed her leg open to the bone. And another man who got his feet trapped in a rock, and had both his legs broken by the force of the current. “I think he was drunk, though,” says Scott, thoughtfully.

At the river, Neil shows me how to put on the spray skirt, a neoprene device that fits snugly around the waist and snaps around the edges of the kayak cockpit. I will be paddling a play boat, a tiny kayak less than five feet long. Unlike sea kayaks and recreational kayaks, play boats are designed to turn easily rather than to go in a straight line. Paddling one of them across a lake would be frustrating; in a river, though, they are responsive, buoyant and fun.

I watch other paddlers in the rapids as Neil points out the features of a typical whitewater run: standing waves, where water hits a rock and shoots up like a wave on the ocean; holes, where water drops over a ledge and falls back upon itself; and eddies, where the current along the shore goes upstream rather than down. We will be spending most of our time in the eddies, he says.

But first, I need to learn how to go underwater. We head for a quiet bit of water at the bottom of the rapids.

Putting your head underwater is not hard. It’s one of the first things every child learns in swimming lessons. I love to swim underwater, take delight in taking a deep breath and swimming slowly along the bottom for as long as I possibly can.

Putting your head underwater while your legs are pinned in a boat, though, is not a natural act. The first time I try it, I feel completely flustered. Panicky, even. I tear at the spray skirt, pushing myself out of the boat and to the surface as quickly as possible. Neil looks at me sympathetically. “How long can you hold your breath for?” he asks. “Thirty seconds?” I nod. “And how long do you think that was?”

“Five seconds?” I suggest.

“If that.”

So I try it again, flipping my boat over and willing myself to relax. I open my eyes and look around. I can see the clear sky, the green water, the hull of Neil’s boat. After a few seconds, I release my spray skirt, push myself out of the boat and swim up.

Soon we are working on various ways of getting to the surface without exiting the boat. Neil shows me the Hand of God rescue, which involves waiting patiently upside down in the water while another boater rights the boat for you. The T-rescue is similar, except you have to grab the bow of the other boat and pull yourself upright. I need to know these things before we enter the whitewater. “You will swim,” Neil says. “I guarantee it.”

On my first run through the eddy, I catch an edge and flip the boat. Being upside down and going down a fast river, I discover, is very different from being upside down in a calm pool. I am supposed to wait for a T-rescue, but I panic again and swim out of the boat as fast as I can. Again, Neil gives me a patient smile. “Just wait for me to get there,” he says. “I’m right beside you.”

I flip again on my next run, but this time I know what to expect. Racing down the river, I watch Neil’s boat pull up beside mine, and reach out to right myself. “Much better,” Neil says encouragingly. I have just dumped my boat while going through the most basic eddy the river has to offer, but I have to agree with Neil: that time was much better.

Before long we are entering the current near the top of the eddy, paddling hard into waves that stand three feet high as we race down the river. The boat crashes and surges up and over each wave, flying through a maelstrom of water, foam and air. We are running the most basic kind of whitewater, but we are still running whitewater. It is thrilling and addictive, and I instantly know why kayakers come to play in the same water day after day.

The last step is learning to roll. This is the skill that I have really come to learn, the one that will allow me to play in whitewater without needing an instructor beside me to perform a T-rescue. It would be wonderful to say I learned it, or even came close. I didn’t.

Again and again, Neil shows me how to move the paddle across my body, flick my hips and come upright. I try to mimic his movements while upright, picturing how they would look and feel underwater. But it just won’t click. I feel like I am doing one of those science centre activities where you try to trace a line while watching yourself in the mirror. My brain refuses to grasp it.

Neil, encouraging as always, says that is to be expected. “Nobody learns to roll in a two-hour lesson.” He teaches winter courses in the pool and has seen students take five months to learn a roll. My progress, he says, is about average.

“I have three goals when I teach kayaking,” he says. “No. 3 is that you have fun, 2 is that you learn something, and the No. 1 goal is that I turn you on to kayaking. If people come back, then I’ve succeeded.”

Neil succeeds. I didn’t achieve my bucket list goal of learning to roll, but I learn enough to see that it’s worth learning. I no longer want to roll for the sake of rolling; I want to roll because that’s my ticket to playing in the whitewater. I want to roll so I can go out in that foaming, surging, powerful river and play.

If you’re interested in learning whitewater kayaking, contact Algonquin Outfitters Boatwerks in Minden at 1-866-KAYAKS-0 or 705-286-1492.

Let the Muskoka Sun help you cross an item off your Muskoka Bucket List. Send your bucket list entry to editorial@muskokasun.com or write to us at P.O. Box 1049, Bracebridge, P1L 1V2 because you know . . . you’re not getting any younger!