I used muscles I haven’t used in decades. If ever.

Beloved and I took a kayaking safety class – how to deal with tipping over, salvaging your kayak, helping someone else in, getting in by yourself, etc. Held in Redondo Beach harbor, I was amazed at the clarity of the water.

I was comforted by the reviewer of the REI class who said the instructor taught the exit/re-entry methods on dry land, then you had the option of trying them in the water if you wanted to.

We obviously did not have the same instructor.

His first comment: we’re gonna rip the bandaid off first thing and everyone jumps in the water.

Me: whut?

Him: this is a kayaking safety class. How’re you gonna learn the techniques if you don’t try them?

Me: Shit. I thought this class was theory, not a lab.

Him: Everyone in the water!

Oh, man. We sized up and kitted out our kayaks (bilge pump, paddle float, drink) and put literally everything we owned into storage (pictures? Hell no. I’m not donating my phone to Davy Jones’ locker, thank you very much…)

Then… everyone was expected to hop off the launch into the harbor. I assumed the position taught me by every cruise director on all the many ocean going adventures we’ve had (plug your nose and cross your other arm over your chest, presumably to stop your boobs from detachment upon hitting the water) and fell in.

Fortunately, we didn’t see the very dead lobster bobbing around like one of the unfortunates in the Titanic movie after the ship sank until after we got out to climb into our kayaks. YECH. I was like, isn’t this dude a long way from home? Do we even HAVE lobsters in So Cal? (Answer: Yes, we do. The California Spiny Lobster.)

We left that little horror behind and headed to the outer harbor.

First, we learned the fine art of tipping your kayak. This is the one thing I’ve kinda feared in kayaking… what if I got stuck under water? Like some car horror flick where the girl gets stuck and can’t open the windows and it keeps filling with water until… o nooooo…

The instructor said it was really easy to swim out as there are no windows to try to break.

Oh. Okay then.

It’s oddly easy to flip a kayak. You just lean to one side and bloop, over you go.

It is not easy, however, to remember everything you’re supposed to do when you wind up on the wrong side of a sea going vessel, head pointing to the sea floor.

As you tip, you tuck. You don’t want to crack your head on some rock or something if you’re in shallow water.

Then you’re supposed to whack the kayak three times to signal distress to your comrades.

Me? Bugger whacking the damn canoe, I’m upside down and held in by a rubber skirt that envelopes me like a giant jockstrap when it’s not attached to the kayak. It’s a pain in the ass. The hell with ever using a skirt – the point is to keep the water out, so you wear this rubber tube which flares outwards from your hips at an alarming angle (ie, straight out) and is designed to hook with giant elastic around the sides of your sit-in.

It seals out all water. And seals YOU in when you go upside down.

Our budget is in no danger of being drained due to the purchase of rubber skirts. The only time I would consider it sensible was when we kayaked the Thames… that water was choppy (all the touristy boats roaring to and fro) and REVOLTING.

So… after thrice whacking the formerly bottom of the kayak, you pull on the handle of the skirt and it pops off, freeing you to swim out and up. Theoretically.

Well, that’s a great idea until you swim parallel to the stupid craft. Then your head starts bonking on all the bits and bobs you strapped to the top-now-underwater as your disoriented self attempts to get out from under the thing.

Meanwhile, you’re wearing what amounts to a costume that belongs in a drag theater’s production of Gone with the Wind meets dominatrix mistresses gone wild.

So the first time, they went easy on us. So to speak. We swam over to the breakwater and got back in to the kayaks from the giant rocks.

Or tried to. First, the tide is remarkably strong even on the calm side of the breakwater.

Second, the instructor tried to hold the kayak as steady as possible as we climbed, plopped or fell in (I was in the latter camp, I’ve always been upfront about my complete lack of physical abilities… which should’ve warned me against taking this damn class in the first place.)

Third… I forget what was third, but it was a frustrating… oooh, yeah, getting onto a rock at the right height to pull off this amazing stunt. Again, my total lack of physical ability…

Fortunately, the bruise on my back is fairly small.

Okay! Back in the kayak! We survived!!

Instructor: okay, now we learn water rescues with a partner!

Me: Whut? There’s… more…?

So the two instructors, both nice guys, demonstrated the process. One person tips over and swims out. The savior helps the tip-ee corral the kayak and paddle, then puts the kayak perpendicular to his/her own.

With a feat of nothing short of superhuman strength, the kayak-bound lifts and pulls, and the tip-ee pushes down on the stern and they magically get the kayak half onto the upright one, so they can waggle it back and forth to get the water out.

Oooooookay…

Then, after flipping over said kayak, you align the empty next to the savior, who holds the other craft steady as the tip-ee performs an Olympic-level water aerobics move that would make the Russian team blanch and flops back into the cockpit.

Me: Well, that’ll never fukkin’ happen.

Beloved: Let’s give it a go!

Over I went into the water, again bonking my head as I tried to figure out which direction was up, unimpeded by multiple pounds of plastic.

We mostly got the water out of my kayak (thank you dearest as I know I was about as much use as an udder on a bull), but damn me, genetics worked against me… HARD… as I tried the re-entry.

When we started kayaking, we were tipped off by a woman working at one of the places from which we rented: go and buy your own PFD (personal flotation device, AKA a life preserver). It’s not cheap but it’s the ONLY way to do this.

I’ve never seen a kayak rental place (or a cruise ship for that matter) that offer women’s PFDs. If you’re no bigger than a B cup, no biggie… in more than one sense of the word.

God help you if your mama bestowed DDs on you, darling, because a standard life preserver will rearrange your anatomy in ways that will make your life misery. You could be wearing a steel lined corset and your boobs will still meet at your shoulder blades.

Adding to the bonus, the four-inch-thick foam on a standard PFD will get shoved up so high breathing becomes difficult and vision questionable.

So the hundred bucks or so we each dropped on a woman’s life preserver was so, soooooo worth the cash. Those cutouts are a godsend. You still look like you’re wearing a badly designed Incredible Hulk Halloween costume, but at least you don’t look (and feel) like a Picasso painting.

Anyway, back to the watery re-entry. Holy crackerjacks. This is where my physique gave me trouble. Kicking as hard as I could, I could NOT get my décolletage to clear the side of the kayak – and encased in a solid life vest, the girls weren’t willing to shift a little, either.

Beloved had me by the strap of my PFD (assistance not encouraged but tolerated by the instructors) – that only succeeded in pulling it so I was no longer encased in the cups, and I was contorted in a way resembling what would happen if you were having a mammogram and the machine suddenly dropped with the plates against your stomach.

Finally, by hooking my foot under the cockpit and assuming a position I have never actually done before (because my whole body was screaming this is wrong!!), we managed to get me in the kayak.

It was, to say the least, unlovely.

Sigh.

We got Beloved back in with considerably less drama when it was her turn, although her leg with the knee replacement wasn’t as cooperative as she might have liked.

I’d like to say the class improved from there, but… well… let’s just say I went for the theory side at that point. I did attempt (failed miserably) at the solo re-entry (total joke, if I ever fall out when I’m alone I’m swimming back to shore and the hell with the cost of the kayak).

You blow up a paddle balloon, which you attach to one end of your paddle and then use it as a lever to floop yourself back in.

First, I don’t floop. Second, I couldn’t get a strong enough grip on the paddle and the side of the kayak to avoid simply kicking the paddle outta the way when I tried to half-stand on it for leverage.

Finally the instructor got me back over the the breakwater so I could dump myself back in.

They demonstrated the final method (I guess they figured out the frustration level): the “cowboy”. You sliiiiiiiide yourself onto the end of the kayak and crawl, as low as possible, to the cockpit.

Sounds easy, right?

If by some miracle you are able to mount the end of the kayak without it flipping you back into the drink, it then twists and flings you off to the side.

“Cowboy”?? Bucking bronco, more like.

Not only that, the one woman (of five) in the group who succeeded (a tiny, wiry woman who was all sinew and muscle) got stuck courtesy of that rubber hoop skirt we were all still wearing. She managed to get herself untethered and slunk along to the seat.

All in all, I’m glad we took the class – I’m no longer afraid of falling out of a kayak. I’m also confident that if I ever do get dunked, I’m sure as hell not getting back in the damn thing.