The email read, “Time to relocate boats to the other side of the lake.”

“Ask Ben. He’ll take care of it,” said Gary.

My husband had called from our porch in SC while I sat at my mother’s round kitchen table in WV. Reverse our locations, and he would have stored our canoe without a word.

Ask Ben?

I could, but I wouldn’t.

Ben, my niece Taylor’s husband feels more like a nephew than a “niece Taylor’s husband.” When he and Taylor aren’t working, they’re juggling soccer and swim practices, attending matches and meets, volunteering in concession stands—doing the things parents do.

I headed back to our “castle” above the lake. Before I unlocked the door, my brother Donald texted, “Mom said you’re going to rack the canoe. Let me know if you need help.”

“I will,” I said.

But I wouldn’t.

I looked forward to an end-of-season paddle across the lake. Plus, I’d find out if my dumbbell and squat routines were worth the time.

Oral Lake is not a seemingly endless expanse of water like Lake Norman, NC where I once ran out of gas on a wave runner in a sea of nowhere. That could never, as in ever, happen on Oral Lake.

For one, I can stand on the swimming dock at our lake and see land on both ends.

For two, jet skis and watercraft with more than a trolling motor are forbidden. We swim, fish, row, canoe, and paddleboard.

I let myself into the castle, grabbed a paddle, and headed down the hill to the deserted lake and our ancient, green, two-seater canoe.

I sported a pale pink summer hoodie and lightweight grey cargo pants; the same uniform I wore to hike miles of trails at Yellowstone last September. I congratulated myself on having already been dressed for the task—until I saw the hull, full of rainwater and fallen leaves.

I glanced at my new—white—tennis shoes. Ugh.

I could have trudged back up the hill to swap for an old pair.

I could have, but I didn’t.

Grunting, I lugged the canoe onto the dock and leaned it sideways to dump as much water and debris as possible. Sliding it back into the water, I balanced the boat with the paddle and climbed in, splaying my shoes away from the leftover muck.

I paddled under the setting sun in the azure sky and paused to admire a couple of giant grass carp and shrinking yellow-green lily pads floating here and there.

When I reached the ramp, I paddled backward onto the cement slab. I pulled off my shoes, stuffed my socks inside, and threw them to shore. Rolling up my pant legs, I threw one leg over the canoe into the water, and—YIKES—slipped on the slimy concrete. How I avoided going for a swim remains a mystery.

On dry ground, I managed to get the 75 lb. canoe to the two-story rack by pulling…grunting… dragging…resting—repeat. My final challenge? Hauling the boat up and onto the widest of the two spots left on the second tier.

I lifted the bow, heaving it to a plank on the first tier, then pushing and shimming the stern to work the bow higher. When the darn thing turned sideways, I wiped my brow with my mud-stained sleeve and said to myself, “Self, you can right that ship when it’s on the rack.”

Which is what I did once I got it there—by pulling and tugging while standing on rowboat bottoms, then climbing to the second-tier planks and heaving with all my might. I made my way back to the grass, lifted the stern, and—halleluiah—pushed the canoe across the rack.

Time to relocate boats to the other side of the lake?

No problem.