Marcy”), and wondered how canoeists heading up the Hudson might find their way back to Maine. The host sailors, meanwhile, swooned over the visitors’ derring-do while occasionally noting their own feats (“I once hiked Mt. Wilkinson’s wife, Janet, and children were among the picnickers, having driven down from New Hampshire to check in on the group’s progress, and to belatedly celebrate Father’s Day. “One of the first things the Pilgrims did when they landed in 1620 was help themselves to a canoe to cross a river while they had some armloads of stashed corn that they had found in the sand dunes.” “I try to remind everybody that the canoe really is a Native American invention,” Wilkinson told a few Nyack sailors over a picnic dinner of sloppy joes.
#OOPS SLIP NIP PROFESSIONAL#
He invoked his ancestral language when mentioning a nickname for their vessel: “ Chi Jeckin Agwiden, or Big-Ass Canoe.” The crew included members of four nations of the Haudenosaunee Confederacy and one self-described “white guy,” Freddie Wilkinson, a professional mountain guide who is writing a book, for National Geographic, about the history of the canoe, from birchbark to big-ass. Ranco is a member of the Penobscot tribe. It was day forty-one of a uniquely looping voyage, a fifteen-hundred-mile circumnavigation of the Northeast that had begun in Old Town, Maine, on the Stillwater branch of the Penobscot River. Ranco, a forty-two-year-old carpenter when not afloat, was recounting this at the Nyack Boat Club, where he and the other paddlers had tied up for the night after a seventeen-mile ascent of the Hudson, from Inwood. Ate a lot of hot dogs and went to the amusement park.” All these Russians are asking me who’s paying their tax. Soon, after a harrowing passage around Breezy Point, amid four-foot swells, they were at Brighton Beach. Undeterred, the paddlers proceeded west, eventually reaching Great South Bay, and paused at Fox Island, where a bolt of lightning struck the ground less than a mile from where they were huddled, beneath the canoe’s hull. Some of their gear-a pair of shoes, a VHF radio, a wampum sash worth several thousand dollars-now resides on the canal’s bottom. He went far right, zigzagging, and as he went by us he, like, hit the gas-you could see his bow go up.” The narrow canal frothed like an ocean, and the canoeists were sent swimming. “We kind of had a little game of chicken going. “It was in our lane, on the left side of the canal,” Ranco said. A powerboat named Just Chillin’ appeared from around a corner. The speed limit on the Shinnecock Canal, in Hampton Bays, is five miles per hour, which a group of hardy paddlers in a thirty-one-foot canoe were improbably exceeding the other day, when “the shit went down,” as one of them, Ryan Ranco, recalled.
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