Hooked: Close Call on Calm Water

You never expect the river to fight back—especially not on a morning like this.

I wasn’t even sure I’d paddle today—yesterday’s grind had wrung me out. But the forecast was flawless, and the rare promise of a motorboat-free river whispered adventure. That got me moving. Early enough to dodge the post-lunch crowd.

When I arrived, the rowing quads had vanished, the provincial team already on the water. I slipped into the quiet like a ghost. The river, calm. Familiar. Almost reverent. My private cathedral of current and breath.

I told myself it’d be a recovery paddle. Easy. Gentle. But fatigue can be a trickster, and somewhere between the dock and the first stroke, I made a different call—half-pace skill work. Twenty minutes of lazy warm-up gave way to five-minute pivot blocks: turn, paddle—five quick strokes each side—and pivot again. Five minutes of that. Then five drifting in the silence, watching the river slide past like nothing could ever go wrong.

Until it did.

Midway through a new pivot technique I was working on, I lost it.

I’ve hit the water thousands of times—most of them on purpose. But every now and then, like today, it happens when I’m pushing just past the edge. And honestly, that’s the whole point. If you’re not falling, are you even trying?

As I tipped, instinct took over. I launched into a brace, slammed the paddle down, clawed for balance. No luck. I went in—headfirst. The cold hit like a slap. No big deal. I know the drill.

In the water, muscle memory kicked in. I always time myself during remounts. Goal: 3 seconds. Average: 7. Drive the leg, press the rails, rise from the water like you belong there.

But this time, something caught. I kicked harder. Still stuck.

My inflatable PFD’s carabiner had snagged on the SUP handle.

I was hooked—locked in and unable to remount. My board, just 20 inches wide, was trying to roll. And with me tethered awkwardly beneath it, the odds weren’t in my favor. If it flipped, I was going under.

That’s when the risk turned real.

Fear hit instantly—but panic is the enemy. A race SUP is unstable even when you’re not hooked to it like a fish. The river wanted to flip me. I didn’t let it. I forced my breath to steady, floated my legs high, and shifted the board with everything I had. The tension was brutal.

In a calm, methodical blur—heart hammering—I reached down, found the clip, and undid the waist pack. Inch by inch, I wormed my way back into the dugout. Slowly. Deliberately.

Because if that board had rolled… I wouldn’t be writing this.

 

 Lessons Learned

 1. Even familiar gear can surprise you.

The waist-mounted PFD and SUP handle—a combination I’ve used countless times—created a trap I never saw coming. Know your gear and know how it might behave in the chaos of a fall. Always use a locking gate on your carabiner.

2. Calm is a survival skill.

In moments where panic threatens to take over, breath control and mental focus are as critical as technique. Practice staying calm, even when everything screams otherwise.

3. Repetition creates readiness.

Those hundreds—maybe thousands—of remounts? They gave me muscle memory, the strength and the endurance I could rely on under pressure. Train like it matters, because someday it will.

4. Small boards mean small margins.

A 20-inch SUP might offer performance benefits, but it demands precision. If you’re not expecting it to roll, it will. Respect the limits of your gear—especially when tired.

5. Falling isn’t failing.

Every spill is a story. Every mistake becomes experience. But there’s a fine line between pushing the edge and going over it. Know the difference. Learn it the wet way if you must—but learn it.