The Pelican

Me and two of my best pals in 2007 when we were 20 years old. Photo taken by another best pal.

Lovingly referred to as "The paddle boat", the yellow Pelican pedal boat was a cabin staple. A cabin trip was never complete without at least one cruise in that thing. Over the years, some of my closest friends became cabin regulars. This group of girls and I spent a good chunk of our childhood, teenage years and young adulthood in that Pelican. We were always equipped with snacks and, in later years, drinks. There were four actual seats, two upfront with the pedals and two in the back facing backwards. But more often than not, there were at least five of us in that thing. Sometimes, we would even tie an inner tube to the back and tow a couple more. There was a lot of mid-voyage seat swapping, which required some carefully planned, almost acrobatic, maneuvering. It was a whole production. That boat endured a lot.

During family trips to the cabin, the Pelican held the same allure. With aunts, uncles, cousins, grandparents and dogs swarming around, there was always a splash of yellow out on that water. My cousin’s beloved chihuahua loved to captain the boat. He would stand on top of the ridge between the front seats, so proud in his mini life jacket, staring intently out at sea. Way back, my aunt’s two labradors would swim beside the Pelican as we slowly pedaled around our little nook close to shore. When the cousins were really young, myself included, there would often be a collection of seashells, tiny crabs or even interesting looking pieces of bark in the back seat. We collected treasures as we went, of course. The sounds of the churning water off the pedals was always accompanied by lots of chatter and laughter. Everyone got a turn to pedal and steer. There was usually one smartass sitting in the back gently holding the rudder in place, preventing the navigator upfront from having any control. Even though we all expected this, we were still caught off guard. Trying to figure out what was wrong with the steering handle was a spectacle. Laughter ensued.

When we were twenty-seven, myself and two of my very good friends (and cabin alumni) took a particularly memorable ride in the Pelican. By then, the boat had seen better days. It had some battle wounds. There were a few little cracks, some parts were pretty rusted and it just didn’t have the same power that it once had. The whole pedal mechanism had broken loose from the plastic shell of the boat. So pedaling had become much less efficient. Despite the wear and tear, the Pelican had never failed us, so we weren’t concerned. We packed up some drinks, grabbed our life jackets (safety first) and our sunglasses and headed out for another fun-filled, relaxing pedal. Or so we thought.

The cabin is situated in the middle of a row of about a dozen, slightly-spread-apart waterfront properties. This particular stretch of the Sound is generally quite calm as it is shielded by a small island. The row of properties is bookended by the mill at one end and the YMCA camp at the other. The mill and the YMCA camp were always our Pelican boundaries, knowing that the pedal boat would not fare well in the more aggressive waters beyond.

At this time in my life, I had just completed my first year of my university degree. I knew that this particular week at the YMCA property was Diabetes Camp. A camp where children with diabetes could experience summer camp without having to deal with being the outsider who had to manage their insulin or worry about not being able to eat the same foods as the other kids. I knew Diabetes Camp was this week because a couple of my new university friends, and future colleagues, were working there. As usual, we pedaled our way out to the YMCA dock with the intention of turning around when we reached our usual boundary. The Sound had other plans for us that day. We somehow found ourselves in a strong undertow, which seemed determined to propel us beyond our safe little stretch of water. The combination of the undertow, the poor condition of the Pelican and our slight intoxication, left us struggling to hold our own. Let alone gain any ground in the right direction. Because of the broken seals of the pedal mechanism, the harder we pedaled, the more water the Pelican took on. At one point, one of my friends jumped off and started pushing the boat from behind as she swam. While the other two of us pedaled our asses off. After about forty-five minutes of giving it all we had, we had gotten nowhere. We had managed to hold our ground right in front of the YMCA dock, but we knew it was a losing battle. We had to admit defeat. Using every last bit of strength and energy we had, we somehow maneuvered the Pelican enough to make contact with the YMCA dock. At this point, the Pelican was completely water logged. It was a wonder it hadn’t gone under. We knew there was no way we would get the boat back to the cabin with manpower alone. So here we were, three twenty-seven-year-olds in bikinis, life jackets and flip flops, slightly intoxicated, soaked and exhausted. Standing on the dock at Diabetes Camp. Not at all the first impression I was hoping to make in my future career field. We waddled our way up the dock, over the walkway and onto the main field of the camp. Luckily, there was no one around. We noticed that everyone appeared to be in the large mess hall on the other side of the field. We let out a little exhale of gratitude and went in search of a phone. At twenty-seven years old, I was going to have to call my grandparents to come rescue me while I was intoxicated and stranded at Diabetes Camp.

We found a few, very confused, camp workers who kindly led us to a phone. I called the cabin multiple times, no answer. We looked at each other with dread. Our only option now was to walk the ~5 km of dirt road back to the cabin in our bikinis, life jackets and flip flops. Oh bother. We bowed our heads and started walking towards the road. As we were reaching the camp entrance, we saw a couple of camp workers sitting at a table. A dad and his young kid were walking towards the table, seemingly to check in for Diabetes Camp. My friend saw this as an opportunity to score a ride. The look of sheer horror on the dad’s face as we approached him quickly told us he was not the answer. (I can’t say for certain, but I’m pretty sure the dad shielded his son’s eyes when he saw us coming). It was then that one of the camp workers took pity on us and offered to drive us to the cabin in the Sunshine Coach. Having never been picked up by the cops as a teenager and driven home to my parents, I can’t say I know exactly what that feels like. But I would imagine the shame of that whole experience is likely akin to being driven back to your grandparents in a bikini by a clearly shocked, and much younger, camp worker in a van that is meant for shuttling children between the ferry and the YMCA camp.

I wish I could say that was the end of it. Unfortunately, we still had to go retrieve our dilapidated vessel. When we got back to the cabin, we headed directly for the dock and jumped into the aluminum boat. Still in our bikinis, life jackets and flip flops, it felt an awful lot like an exaggerated walk of shame. We started up that 9.9 HP motor and putted our way over to the Y. Hard not to attract some attention as we tied the half-sunken Pelican to the back of the aluminum boat. We were far from subtle. Honestly, there was no point in even trying to be. Even the tiniest of sounds is amplified on the water and we were very much out of place and, most likely, pretty clumsy. A speedy getaway was impossible. Going any faster than a slow crawl caused the Pelican to dip under the surface. Threatening to fully sink with the slightest turn of the throttle. Miraculously, we got the Pelican back to our beach and managed to drag it up far enough to be safe from the tide. We laid the Pelican to rest, knowing full well that it had taken its last trip. If our time with that yellow Pelican had to end, I’m grateful that it ended with an adventure and I’m honoured to have been a part of it.