Inflatable Kayak Blog

(Candace Clayton is an author who’s written novels, poetry and other short stories. She was kind enough to write this fictional adventure series specifically for the Inflatable Kayak Blog about ‘The Traveling Man’, a kayaker who tells us tales about his youthful adventures with his buddies on the rivers where he grew up. We hope you’re enjoying it!)

When last we met The Traveling Man and his fellow traveler, John, they had discovered the remains of an old canoe in a cave, deep in the swamps of Louisiana. Suddenly, sights, smells, and sounds they could not believe surrounded them. Let’s rejoin our adventurous duo and see how they get themselves out of their current situation.

John and I just stood there with our mouths hanging open. This sure was an unexpected development. I mean, who would think to find themselves in a cave full of ghosts? Not that I even believed in ghosts before then. Had to do some serious rethinking on my part to even wrap my mind around what was happening.

I closed my eyes, thinking that when I opened them those ghosts would be gone. But no sir, those ghosts were still there, dancing round that fire. John had turned whiter than those there beings, so I knew he saw the same things I did.

“We gotta get outta here.” John spoke in the tiniest whisper. I could hardly hear the feller.

“How you planning on us doing that? We got no light and no idea where we even are. What we gotta be doing, is figuring out why these ghosties are here.”

“Pfft, I aint aiming to talk to em.” John looked at me like I had lost my marbles.

“Nobody said nothing about talking to em. I don’t think they even know we are here.”

“Well, then how do you plan us to figure out why they are here, iffen we don’t talk to em?”

“I don’t rightly know, just yet. I am thinking on it.”

“Well, think faster, those ghosts are giving me the willies.”

All the while John and I had been talking it over, these ghosts had continued their dancing and chanting. They had paid us no never mind until that moment. All of a sudden, one of them looked right at us. Ever so slowly, he crooked his finger as if he was calling us over there. Scared us so bad, I pert near wet my pants and John’s jaw hit the cave floor again.

“John, I believe he is wanting us to go over there.”

“I ain’t going anywhere near there.” John squeaked like a rusty old harmonica. He was so terrified he could barely talk.

The Indian specter kept staring at us and signaling we should join him. I started walking forward, but John grabbed my arm.

“What are you doing? Are you nuts?”

“Nope, I am aiming to find out what he wants.”

“Well, it’s your funeral.”

With those last words of support and friendly concern, John let go my arm. I walked toward those dancing ghosts, but not quickly. No sir, I was taking my time. My heart was pounding in my chest so hard it was almost as loud as those drums and pounding feet. The mist was swirling wetly around my feet and I hoped I wouldn’t step on another gator. If I did, I was someone’s dinner for sure. From within the darkness, I felt a hand grab my arm and I let out a holler.

“It’s me, man. Don’t freak out.”

I turned to see John’s face right next to mine.

“Thought you weren’t going with me.”

“Shoot, with everything we been through together? You think Imma let some old ghosties do you in?”

“Well, I’m mighty glad you changed your mind.”

John and I continued towards the frightening images. As we got closer, they all started turning towards us. One by one, those ghosts stopped their dancing and turned till they were all standing there next to the pieces of canoe ruins and staring straight at us…

Come back next month and read more of The Traveling Man’s ghostly adventure.

The author, Candace Clayton, lives in Granbury, Texas with her Husband and family, spending as much time in the outdoors as she can.

(New Chapters of “The Traveling Man” series are published on a monthly basis here in the Inflatable Kayak Blog. Check back soon for another chapter or set your computer to receive our RSS feed and you’ll be informed automatically when the next part of the story will be posted.)

(Candace Clayton is an author who’s written novels, poetry and other short stories. She was kind enough to write this fictional adventure series specifically for the Inflatable Kayak Blog about ‘The Traveling Man’, a kayaker who tells us tales about his youthful adventures with his buddies on the rivers where he grew up. We hope you’re enjoying it!)

When last we saw the Traveling Man and his buddy, John, they were lost in the swamps of Louisiana in their canoe. It was after dark and they decided to spend the night in a cave. After they had entered the cavern, they hit a rock and their lantern went sailing overboard. Once again, they were submerged into darkness. In the gloom, something hit their canoe a second time. That was when they realized they were not alone inside the cave…..

I tell ya Friend, and I ain’t ashamed to say it, We were plum scared!

John and I had been through some exciting adventures, but this was not one of those times, no sirree. John took a flashlight out of his backpack and started shining it around the cave.

“John, aim that there light at the water,” I told him.

Sure enough, there were two beady, yellow eyes looking at us. Those eyes were attached to an angry ol’ gator. Happens, he wasn’t thrilled to have us barge in on him in his cave.

Yep, it was staring at us and we were staring at it. You ever have a staring contest with a cat? This was just like that, ‘cept those eyes did not belong to a cuddly kitty cat. So, there we were staring each other down, when that ol’ gator decided he had had enough and with one last disgusted look at us, high tailed it outta the mouth of the cave. We were relieved, I can’t tell ya how relieved.

“John,” I says, “Shine that there light around some more. Let’s see if there’s anything else in here with us.”

Fortunately, we didn’t see any other creatures with us in that cave. I guess that gator had scared them all away. So we rowed the canoe up to the side of the cave, and climbed out on the ledge. After tying the boat up, we decided to explore that cave a bit. Seems our sense of adventure had restored itself as soon as that gator left us alone in that cave.

John went first, as he had the only light. All of a sudden, he says, “Look there!”

I looked where the light was a aiming and saw the most amazing sight. This cave had been inhabited before. There were charcoal drawings all over the cave walls. They were hard to make out by the dim light, but we could see pictures of gators and snakes. There were also some pictures of fellas with spears a-fighting those old gators.

Just then something at the back of the cave caught my eye.

“John, put that light over here.”

From where we were standing, it looked like a pile of old leather and some sticks. We headed over for a closer look. The closer we got, the more shape that pile of leather took.

“Looks a lot like our canoe,’ John says.

“John, you know what this is? This is the remains of an Indian Canoe. We have made one heck of a discovery here.”

There we were, staring down at that ancient canoe, when we heard another noise. I swear it sounded just like feet dancing and pounding the ground in time to the chanting we could hear. Then, the smell of smoke from a campfire and food cooking on an open flame caught our nostrils.

Suddenly, a strange mist swirled all around us. We could see ghostly figures dancing around at the back of the cave. John and I looked at each other in shock. Had we wandered into a haunted cave?

Come back next month and find out how The Traveling Man and John get themselves out the haunted cave.

The author, Candace Clayton, lives in Granbury, Texas with her Husband and family, spending as much time in the outdoors as she can.

(Candace Clayton is an author who’s written novels, poetry and other short stories. She was kind enough to write this fictional adventure series specifically for the Inflatable Kayak Blog about ‘The Traveling Man’, a kayaker who tells us tales about his youthful adventures with his buddies on the rivers where he grew up. We hope you enjoy it!)

When last we met up with The Traveling Man and his buddy, John, they had gone fishing with Ed. John fell off the pontoon and saw a mysterious creature in the water. Thinking it was the mermaid who started their adventures, both young men searched to no avail. Once they had climbed back on the boat with Ed, he told them the sad legend of the young Indian Maiden, Talulah, the first mermaid. Let’s rejoin The Traveling Man and see where his quest takes him next.

Louisiana Swamp …

Well, Howdy Friends! Ain’t it just a beautiful day? Perfect fishing weather, I said to myself this morning. I grabbed my pole and my bait can and headed down to this here river. Oh, I see you youngsters are going river kayaking. Back in my day, I spent many a hour river kayaking. It’s a glorious way to travel. Yep, lots to see from a kayak. I remember back, just like it was yesterday.

My buddy, John and I were paddling in the swamps of Louisiana in an old two-person, or tandem kayak. We were looking for adventure, excitement, and a mermaid. What? You don’t believe in mermaids. Well, you ain’t spent near enough time on the water then! Course, we didn’t figure that mermaid would be in the swamps, but we wanted to see what it was like in there. Being young and pig headed, we didn’t reckon we’d need ourselves a guide. No sirree! We could make our own way.

John and I had been nosing around in those swamps for a good 5 hours afore we admitted we was lost.  Plum lost. Had no clue where we were going or where we’d been. So, we kept paddling that kayak. Up and down the byways of that stinky swamp. We were alright until it started getting dark on us. Then our hard headedness turned to downright stupidity. What were we thinking? Without a clue of where we were, it looked like we would be staying the night in the swamp.

Yeah, we had camped in some wild places, but this was a might too wild in my thinking. We could see the glowing eyes of the gaters watching us as we paddled by them. Every now and then we could make out a snake as it slithered across the water.

The sun disappeared and it got darker. We determined we would keep going; surely, there was a cabin in here where we could stop for the night. By the light of our lantern, we made our way through the dark swamp.

After what seemed like eternity, we finally saw something. Couldn’t make out what it was from where we was at, so we closed the distance in a hurry. When we were close enough, we saw the mouth of a cave.

That cave was better than sleeping in the kayak, so we headed to the opening and floated inside. Just when we thought the worst was over, the boat hit something in the water and our lantern fell overboard! Yep, there we were in this cave in the pitch dark of night.

John peered over the side and tried to feel his way to the bank, but the kayak hit something again, making us both jump. Wait, we weren’t hitting something. Something was hitting us…. Hard!

Will The Traveling Man and John get out of the swamp? What was bumping into their kayak? Come back next month to find out.

(If you’d like, you can set your computer to receive our RSS feed and you’ll be informed automatically when the next part of the story will be posted. If you’re not sure, click here to learn how to subscribe to an RSS feed)

The author, Candace Clayton, lives in Granbury, Texas with her Husband and family, spending as much time in the outdoors as she can.

by Carole Ann Moleti

Liz walked across the wrap-around porch. Rotting wood sagged under her feet. Her hands fumbled with excitement, and she struggled with the old brass lock. The double doors creaked apart. A sense of déjà vu, a chill, a fleeting vision of the house bustling with activity disappeared into dead silence. She opened the mullioned windows, banging until her wrists hurt to loosen the reluctant sashes.

Her footsteps echoed like leaden boots on bare wood floors. A dust ball under an end table turned out to be the remains of a rat, eye sockets empty, teeth visible in a jawbone, desiccated fur barely holding onto the long tail. Bile rose into her throat.

Liz fashioned a rodent scooper from a piece of cardboard. Holding it at arms length, she pulled open the back door and thanked God it wasn’t swollen shut. She stepped onto the porch and tossed it into the yard. The rat broke into two pieces as it bounced off the chest of a man walking up the path through a pine grove bordering the property.

“Now there’s a brave lady.” He watched it drop and, nonplussed, spoke with a heavy Cape Cod accent. “Not only doesn’t she scream for help when she sees a mouse, she heaves it at the fella who’s got the nerve to come walking up to her back door unannounced.”

“I’m so sorry, sir!” Liz looked up as he ascended the rickety steps. About the same six feet as Gerry, he sported a neatly trimmed gray moustache and beard. His voice was more lilting than his broad chest and arms suggested.  Muscles bulged under his “Yankees Suck!” tee shirt.  His eyes, framed by delicate laugh lines, were the same shade of blue as the sky.

He removed his cap and winked. “You must be from New York. The ladies from down there don’t put up with anything, particularly from Red Sox fans.”

“It was a rat, and I wanted to get rid of it. I’m from Boston. Liz Levine.” She extended her hand.
He grabbed it in a gentle but firm handshake. “And I didn’t even ask which hand you used to pick up the rat.” He walked back down and kicked the carcass under the privet hedge that stood against a broken picket fence.

“Now it’s fertilizer. Mike Keeny from just up Stony Brook Road. I came to see who bought the house. Had my eye on it for a while, but the cost of real estate in Brewster is sky high and this place needs some restoration.”

“So you appreciate historical property, Mr. Keeny.” Finally, someone who didn’t think she was crazy moving from a Beacon Hill townhouse to a dilapidated Victorian loaded with original period furniture and tales of bad luck for a rapid succession of owners.

“They don’t build them like this anymore. And it’s Mike. So where is Mr. Levine?” Liz looked down and struggled to hold back the tears. “He’s deceased.”

“Jesus Christ, I’m so sorry. Is it okay for me to call you Liz? Or do you prefer Mrs. Levine?” Mike grabbed her hands. “I lost my wife two years ago. I know how terrible it is, and I’m a shade older than you.”

“Liz is fine. Being a widow isn’t pleasant at any age.” Her hands slipped from his grasp.

“No, it isn’t. Well, I better get going. I live at 68 Stony Brook, the small colonial. Nothing as grand as your 1875 Victorian, but Brewster is the prettiest town on the Cape, nonetheless. If you need to use the phone, or anything else, it’s a short walk.”

“I have a cell, thanks.” She wished he’d leave.
“I don’t have any technology. Just an old-fashioned kind of guy. Don’t even have cable. Jeez, the things they show on that HBO.”

“Thanks for stopping by, Mike.”

“I’d like to see the place, once you’ve fixed it up.”

“Of course.” Liz turned to go back inside hoping he’d take the hint.

He tipped his finger in a lopsided salute, put his Red Sox cap on, and strode back through the pines.

Something about him seemed familiar; maybe she’d seen him on the beach during one of the summer seasons. Liz burst into tears and cried for a few minutes. Mike was trying to be neighborly. Why had she been so mean?

Gravel scrunched in the driveway, and she wiped her eyes on her sleeve. An army of young women jumped out of a van, each carrying a bucket, a mop, and a vacuum. A stout redhead got out of the driver’s seat and bounded up the front path.

“I’m Mae of Mae’s Irish Maids. You must be Missus Levine.” Mae grabbed her hand and shook it; the grip of her calloused, cracked hands firm.

“Yes, please call me Liz.” Was everyone around here this friendly?

“I’ve got my best crew with me, Lizzy. This place needs a bit of freshenin’, don’t she now? Run along. I’m the hired cleaner. If yer goin’ to be stayin’ here tonight, ya best be gettin’ some groceries and linens.”

“Linens are in the car. But I do need groceries.” Liz gladly picked up her purse and fled.

Liz unloaded two carts worth of staples and gadgets into the spotless pantries. The smell of ammonia drifted down the stairs. Whooshes of running water muffled the brogues. Liz stayed out of the way, arranged her clothes in the antique dresser and armoire, and made her bed.

By five p.m. the redheaded tornado departed. An eerie silence and chill returned. Liz walked through the rooms. They still needed painting and decorating, but the house looked better than she had expected.

Hunger knocked for the first time all day. She walked down to Paine’s Creek Road and Kate’s, the local hot spot.

“I’ll have the fritta and chowda special,” she ordered, noting how her Boston twang got more Cape Coddish.

Families, friends and couples laughed, shared French fries. Impossibly big ice cream cones dripped down happy children’s arms, staining tongues funny colors and raising multicolored dots on their clothing.

“Numba 63,” called the counter clerk.

“That’s us,” she said. Embarrassed she forgot she was alone, Liz  sprinkled malt vinegar on the fritters and found an empty table.

“You look like you could use some company.” Mike Keeny smiled down at her, holding his hat in his hand.

He looked like the last puppy left in a litter, wondering where all his mates had gone.
She didn’t want to be alone, she didn’t want to be with anyone, she didn’t want to cry. What she wanted was Gerry to be back beside her sharing a clam plate and raspberry lime rickey. She wanted this all to be a bad dream. Yeah, she wanted company.

“Sure.” Liz patted the seat next to her.

“I ordered already.” Mike perched on the edge of the picnic bench on the opposite side.

“Don’t wait for me to eat. Nothing tastes worse than cold fritters.” He studied his receipt. “I’m numba seventy-six, so it’ll be a while.”

“Why don’t you share them with me while you wait?” Might as well act neighborly. “This chowder needs to cool off anyway.”

Mike beamed. “Great idea.” He waited until she moved the plate into the center of the table and took one before he helped himself.

The need to chew masked awkward silence.

“Numba seventy-six!”

Mike clambered out of the bench and returned with a clam strip plate and raspberry lime rickey, with two straws. He couldn’t have known. He’d ordered before he even saw her. He couldn’t read minds. Whether or not it was a sign from Gerry, Liz decided to interpret it as one.

He sat next to her this time-at a polite distance-and pushed the plate next to the now empty fritter container. “Here, share this lime-rickey with me. I’d prefer a Heineken, but they don’t serve it here. Anyway, I’m going fishing after this and beer and boats don’t mix.”

He popped two straws into the top and offered it to her first. The lipstick she’d put on came in handy to mark whose was whose. They made quick work of the clams. Mike enjoyed his fries while she polished off the now cooled chowder.

Heavy comfort food, but Liz’s heart felt lighter than it had in a while. “I need to walk this off.”

“How about a ride with me on the marsh? I’d rather show off my new toy than fish.”

“Excuse me?” She must have misunderstood.

Mike’s cheeks blushed crimson. “Jeez, I meant my new kayak. Never was considered the most well-spoken person in the world.”

“I’ve never kayaked.” Liz always feared the currents at Paine’s Creek.

“No matter. The tide is on its way out so the trip in will require some effort. But on the way out we’ll just need to steer. Got a sweatshirt?” He was either oblivious or not giving up.

“No. I guess we’ll have to do it another time.”

“Naw. I have a spare, and insect repellant. Those green flies can be rough.” Oblivious.

He put Liz at ease—like she’d know him a long time. She was not going to act the same way she did earlier.

He interpreted the silence as agreement. “All set. We want to get out of the marsh before 7 p.m. Can’t miss the best sunset on the Cape, but I’m not prejudiced.” Mike beamed like he’d engineered the topography to take full advantage of its unobstructed view of the western sky.
Liz thought of sitting on the rocks next to Gerry, his arm around her, lips brushing her cheek, whispering a promise about the night ahead. Her stomach churned, mixing comfort food and guilt. Gerry had only been dead nine months, and she was on a date. She grabbed the tray and dumped the trash.

Mike was at her elbow. “My truck is just over there.”

They walked to his pickup, the space between them wide enough to accommodate the ghosts of their deceased spouses. Both lonely, neither alone.

Liz slid into the passenger seat. Her heart thumped as hard as the door. The pickup eased over a rise.

The panorama of shimmering azure water and golden sand bathed in the peachy glow of evening sunshine never ceased to cheer her. High-pitched squeals of kids crabbing filled the air. A father and son tried in vain to get their kite aloft.

“Great night for a paddle.” Mike dragged a silver and blue pile toward the end of the load bed. He plugged a hose into an outlet in the back of the truck and, within minutes, a sleek inflatable kayak morphed out of what looked like a rubber raft that had scraped over barnacle-laden rocks once too often.

Mike slung a backpack over his shoulders and lifted the craft effortlessly. Liz scrambled to help him carry it over the sand, but he handled it with aplomb. The guy was likely in his fifties, but fit. “I’ve got this. Grab the paddles, please.”

Liz picked her way over the rocks and shells, stopping to transfer the paddles to the opposite hand, slip off her sandals, and roll her Capri’s up over the knees. Mike, in the water up to his ankles, held the craft steady while she waded in and climbed into the front seat.

Her eyes met his, which glinted with sparks of happiness.

Postponing the fishing expedition certainly hadn’t upset him. “For some reason, I feel like we’ve known each other for a very long time. You look so familiar.”

“Yes, I suppose we’ve seen each other at the beach. I’ve spent summers up here for years.” If she told him her deceased husband had arranged the date, he’d think she was nuts.

He waded up to his knees and hopped over the side. “Life vests are under the seats.”

The steadiness of the kayak had reassured her, but she complied.

Mike buckled into his. “Never know what can happen-especially with the currents and unpredictable winds. Habit I’ve gotten into, even on my Boston Whaler. He spritzed on some insect repellant and passed it to her before paddling the kayak into a labyrinthine creek.

“What should I do?” Liz experimented with hand position.

“Circular strokes.” He demonstrated the smooth motion. “You just have to get a sense of the timing.”

They slipped into a tandem rhythm and cut through the powerful onrushing current like a needle through cloth. The exercise worked Liz’s upper back and arm muscles into a comfortable athletic stretch. The setting sun still warmed her skin, but neither was breathing heavy,

The rhythmic motion and timeless beauty of the marsh blurred time. It could have been one hour, or one day, or a century ago that they’d entered the narrow channel winding through the sea grass. Tides rose and fell everyday, no matter the season or who was there to witness them.

The creek meandered in one direction, then reversed upon itself in a seemingly endless series of turns.

The kayak skimmed the surface like a dragonfly.

Liz couldn’t see Mike’s face, and alone with her thoughts and memories, lost herself in the peace. She sorely needed this serenity after the turmoil of moving into a house in desperate need of repair and renewal-like its new owner.

“How’re you doing, Liz?” Mike’s voice drew her back.

“A perfect end to the day, Mike. I’m sorry you missed fishing though.”

“I’m a fisherman by trade, Liz. Go out everyday in the summer and most in the off -season. But nights get lonely. Why waste such beautiful evenings and pleasant company?”

Liz turned to look at Mike. Not a whisper of tension etched his face. A tiny smile curled his lips. He paddled, his blue eyes took her in like cold lemonade on a hot day.
The pleasurable tingle of being admired by a man faded quickly to a clutch of remorse in her chest.

“I’m…oh look at the osprey!”

Just in time to cut the tension, the large white bird alighted on the platform built to offer a safe nesting space far from interlopers. The current ran faster as the tide receded. Liz was glad to have Mike’s powerful strokes moving them forward. Sweat dampened her neck. She paused to dip her hand into the chilly water and splashed some over her arms and throat.

“Good idea.” Mike did the same, the kayak jolted and swiveled when he stopped paddling.

She picked up her pace and got them back on the correct track.

He took a bottle of water out of the backpack and offered it to her. “I didn’t expect company so I only have one. Ladies first.”

“I’m okay, Mike. You’re doing most of the work.” She grunted with effort.

He took a swig. “Let’s turn around here. We want to get back before sunset.”

He back paddled, and she did the same. The kayak spun and ran with the current toward the beach. Only an occasional swipe was needed to keep it from getting caught in the eddy.

Rock crabs scampered under them. Small fish clustered near the bottom. Green strands of seaweed streamed like mermaid’s hair in the rushing water.

“Think we’ll make it out before we’re beached?” She didn’t relish the thought of slogging through the mud barefoot.

“Kayaks sit high in the water and only touch bottom near dead low tide. Another reason I like this for fishing. If I have to pull, it glides. Easier than carrying my gear and walking.”

They emerged from the creek and were back at the crescent shaped beach, now packed with people trying to get the best vantage point.

They only scraped bottom at the shoreline. Mike stowed his paddle and climbed out. He steadied it for her, then pulled the kayak well up onto the beach. He piled the paddles and backpack on the sand, then opened the valve. While it deflated they stripped off the life vests. Cool night air raised goose bumps on
Liz’s damp skin. She rubbed her arms.

“I’ve got sweatshirts.” He strode over the sand with the kayak and rummaged in the truck.

She gathered the rest of the gear and followed. Mike draped a huge sweatshirt over Liz’s shoulders and gallantly helped her up onto the rocks. They sat close enough for their shoulders to touch briefly. The orange ball plopped like a giant egg yolk beyond the horizon. Everyone around them oooh’d and ahh’d, and smooched and giggled. Being alone here would have been miserable.

A sense of peace, of relaxation settled over her. Today she’d left her old life behind, not by choice but rather by necessity. The timeless, tireless tides, the serenity of the salt marsh, the glory of a gorgeous sunset enjoyed with a companion offered respite, renewal, reassurance.

Mike helped Liz off the rocky ledge, his hand strong, warm, gentle. There wasn’t much left to say on the short drive back to her house.

“Come in.” Liz unlocked the door.

A warm breeze blew through the floor to ceiling windows, banishing the chill. Mike followed her in.

“Would you like to stay awhile?” She imagined he’d look at the house, but he only had eyes for her. “I’d love to, but you look exhausted. Big day, moving, cleaning, unpacking, getting settled. I don’t want to overstay my welcome.”

“Thanks for a wonderful evening, Mike.”

A smile spread over his face. “How about I take you to Chillingsworth one night? They have a great wine list.”

“Actually Mike, I’d rather go to Kate’s. We can bring our own wine down to the beach- for after the paddle–and watch the sunset.”

“You let me know when. Remember, I’m just up the road in case you need anything. Goodnight.” He picked up her hands. After a gentle squeeze, he dropped them, gave his little salute, and disappeared into the pine grove.

Streaks of purple clouds drifted like gnarled fingers through the sky, now tinted pale orange. She, and the house, had come back to life.

(The Author, Carole Ann Moleti writes urban fantasy and paranormal romance with such a light touch, you might not notice the witches, ghosts or fairies. Can you spot any in this interlude from Unfinished Business, her novel in progress set in the historic town of Brewster Massachusetts)

(Carole is an avid outdoorswoman who enjoys winters on the steep, icy slopes of the Northeastern United States and Canada, and summers on the waters of Long Island Sound, upstate New York, and Cape Cod Bay. She’s packed her Sea Eagle 370 and is headed for new adventures, which she’ll be sharing here in the months to come.)

(Candace Clayton is an author who’s written novels, poetry and other short stories. She was kind enough to write this fictional adventure series specifically for the Inflatable Kayak Blog about ‘The Traveling Man’, a kayaker who tells us tales about his youthful adventures with his buddies on the rivers where he grew up. We hope you enjoy it!)

(When left our hero, he and his buddy John we’re falling asleep with dreams of being the one to catch the biggest fish in the lake. Old Ed had promised them a fishin’ trip after their hard work on the farm. It was to be another eventful day … )

Sure enough, Ed woke us up bright and early the next morning. After a big breakfast, we made some sandwiches and grabbed a thermos of coffee for Ed, he couldn’t go more than a hour without his coffee, and headed for Ed’s rusty ol pickup. It was a gorgeous summer morning. The sun was shining, the birds were singing and the fish were sure to be biting.

When we stepped out the door, we saw a sight that stopped us in our tracks. Hitched to Ed’s truck, Bessie, he liked to call her, was the strangest looking boat we had ever seen. Ed chuckled at us and told us to close our mouths before we swallowed a fly. “Hadn’t you boys ever seen a pontoon boat before?” he says, “Thought you two grew up on the river?”

A boat he called it. No boat I ever saw two long, round things under it. Did that thing actually float? I wasn’t so sure, but Ed seemed to think it would, so we headed for the lake. Sure enough, when we got it off the trailer and into the water, it floated. I was amazed, to say the least. John was fascinated by the way the water churned up around them there pontoons and kept leaning over the side to watch. I told him to be careful; he always had been accident-prone. Captain Klutz we called him.

I was just throwing my line in, getting ready to catch a big one, when I heard a holler and a huge splash. Yep, John had gone in headfirst. I wasn’t worried, he could swim better than he could walk. I turned back around and watched my fishing bobber as it moved around on top of the lake. I figured John would climb back up on that pontoon boat in a few minutes.

After about five minutes had passed and no John, I began to get a little bit nervous. Where was he? He was gonna ruin my fishing time with his shenanigans. I was reluctantly pulling my shirt off to jump in after him, when his head popped up way down the lake. He was hollering something and waving his arms around his head. I couldn’t hear him, he was to far away. I yelled out, “Can’t hear ya!” He had swum closer to the boat by this time and I heard, “She’s here!” Well, I forgot all about fishing at that point. I whipped my shirt off and jumped right in that lake. Swimming out to where John was at, I started diving down as far as I could. We searched for hours, but didn’t see her again. Disappointed, we climbed back on the boat with Ed. Ed didn’t say a word.  He pulled his line in and set off to the bank.

That night after dinner had been eaten and the kitchen cleaned up, we went out to the front porch and Ed lit his pipe. After he got it lit and had taken a puff, he pulled it out of his mouth and looked at us. “You boys hunting the mermaid?” he asked. “You know about the mermaid?” I said, we hadn’t talked to anyone about her but each other. We figured people would think we were nuts. “Well, sure I do, most fishermen in these parts have seen her at one time or another. She wasn’t always a mermaid ya know.  No sir, she used to be just as human as you two boys. “ Feeling a good story-telling coming on, I had to ask, “What happened to her?”

“Well, it was a long time ago. There was a young Indian maiden, by the name of Talula. Her name meant, “Leaping Water.”  Talula was the most beautiful maiden in her tribe. She was to marry one of the best hunters in the tribe. Her half-sister, whose name has been forgotten with over time, was in love with the young brave and madly jealous of Talula. She went to the river, the night before Talula’s wedding night, and cast a spell on her sister. “ “The spell caused Talula to sleep walk into the river and she drowned. Legend says that after her death, the sprits turned her into a beautiful creature with the upper body of a young maiden and the lower body of a sea creature. She spends her days and nights making sure no other innocent suffer the same fate she suffered.”

We sat in silence on the porch, each lost in our thoughts. I could see in my mind, Talula, as she walked to her death, asleep and unaware. I looked at John and saw he was thinking the same thing I was. The lovely creature we had seen must have died in a similar manner as Talula. We knew we hadn’t seen Talula. The mermaid we had seen had blonde hair and blue eyes. There had to be more than one. We knew we would never give up in our quest to find her and see if we could discover how she became a mermaid.

(New Chapters of “The Traveling Man” series are published on a regular basis here in the Inflatable Kayak Blog. Check back soon for another chapter or set your computer to receive our RSS feed and you’ll be informed automatically when more stories are posted.)

The author, Candace Clayton, lives in Granbury, Texas with her Husband and family, spending as much time in the outdoors as she can.

(Candace Clayton is an author who’s written novels, poetry and other short stories. She was kind enough to write this fictional adventure series specifically for the Inflatable Kayak Blog about ‘The Traveling Man’, a kayaker who tells us tales about his youthful adventures with his buddies on the rivers where he grew up. We hope you enjoy it!)

Well, hello there, I see you are back for more of my little story. Anxious to hear if we found that there mermaid, are ya? I guess I will eventually get round to telling ya about that, but like my granpappy always said, “ A rushed story is like a shabby roofing job. Full of holes.”  So, all in good time my friend, all in good time.

Let’s see, last time we talked, John and I were hopping a bus, headed outta town. Yes sir, we were two young men out on our own for the first time. No more little boys going to school and doing chores. We were adults in charge of our futures and heading for a mighty adventure. A poorly planned adventure, I tell you what! We thought we knew it all, were prepared for anything. Our first few months away from home sure changed that. Yes sir, we quickly learned we were just young pups, still wet behind the ears. I’m not saying that we didn’t have fun, mind you, just that we still had a whole lotta learning to do.

Well, any who, there we were, on that ol bus. Had to be the oldest bus still on the roads. No shocks whatsoever.  That ol bus bounced and banged its way through dusty ol ghost town after ghost town. We sure picked the wrong bus for sight-seeing, I tell ya. Wasn’t nuthin to see out those cracked, dirty winders but cedar trees, cactus, and cows.  Looked pert near identical to our little home town. Finally, we came to the end of the ride. Yep, we had clean run outta money. No money, no bus ticket. The first of life’s lessons we learned. The bus driver set us off that bus in front of a ramshackle ol bus depot in the smallest town you ever did see. Wasn’t much there, just that bus depot that turned out to be the Post Office and the only fueling station in town. There was a little diner across the street. So, we picked up our bags and headed for it. We figured between the two of us, we had enough change for some soda pop to clear the dust from our parched throats. If we were lucky, we might even have enough for a slice of pie. We sure were hungry.

That little diner was plum near deserted. Wasn’t anyone to be seen, but the waitress behind the counter and a grizzled ol man down at the far, sitting on a stool, sipping coffee. Coffee! It had to be over 100 degrees out and he was drinking scalding hot coffee.  John and I nodded hello and took our seats at the other end of that counter. Wasn’t long before we were sipping our soda and sharing the best piece of apple pie we had ever eaten. I considered myself an expert judge of good apple pie. My momma, God rest her soul, made the best apple pie in town. She always took the blue ribbon home from the county fair. The other ladies in town were always trying to figure out her secret. But I am telling ya, whoever it was that had made that pie, had an angel’s touch with the crust. I can still feel that buttery crust, so flaky it melted on your tongue.

Well, as I was a saying, there we were scarfing down that pie like it was the first thing we had eaten in days. Course, due to our lack of funds, it was. The ol man said something to the waitress. A few short minutes later, she was setting a plate with two huge sandwiches on it, right smack in front of us. Smiling at our baffled looks, she told us that Ed, the ol man down the other end of the counter, was paying. We looked at Ed and mumbled our thanks around huge mouthfuls. I reckon he heard our stomachs complaining from the other end of that diner.

Yep, that’s how we met ol Ed. He took us under his wing for three whole months. Put us to work hauling hay. I tell ya, that is back breaking work. Paid well though and Ed gave us room and board on top of our weekly pay. We were able to put back our earnings and save up for when we headed back out on the road. After that first week, when we were so sore that every muscle in our arms and backs were a cursing us for the abuse, Ed says, “Boys, you did a fine job this week. Let’s go fishing tomorrow.”  Tired and achy as we were, our ears perked right up! It was decided we would get up early the next day and head to the local lake. We fell asleep that night with dreams of being the one to catch the biggest fish in the lake.

(Did they catch a ‘big one’ or did they catch something else? Visit the Inflatable Kayak Blog (on Thursday, 3-25-10) for part 2 of our story. If you’d like, you can set your computer to receive our RSS feed and you’ll be informed automatically when the next part of the story will be posted.)

The author, Candace Clayton, lives in Granbury, Texas with her Husband and family, spending as much time in the outdoors as she can.

(Candace Clayton is an author who’s written novels, poetry and other short stories. She was kind enough to write this fictional adventure story specifically for the Inflatable Kayak Blog about ‘The Traveling Man’, a kayaker who tells us a tale about a youthful adventure with his buddies on the river where he grew up. We hope you enjoy it!)

(When left our hero, he was about to join his buddies to chase off some ‘dad burned females’ from their swimming hole. However, suddenly, in the middle of the river, where the water ran the deepest and coolest, emerged the most beautiful mermaid he had ever seen.)

Water dripped off her and caught the sunlight in millions of sparkly prisms. I was struck nearly blind by her radiance.

I  figured this glorious beauty was part of that annoying group invading our water hole. What to do! If my buddies succeeded in running off that gaggle of chicks, this vision of pure loveliness would leave too. I just couldn’t let that happen, so I did some quick thinking.

My plan was ingenious, or so I thought at the time. I reached out and ducked John under the surface, by way of the fact that he was closest to me and had the loudest voice. That feller come up out of the river spitting and sputtering with blood in his eyes!

I never even saw what was headed my way. I was still in awe of the angel so innocently floating in the river having no idea of the trouble her mere presence was causing. Next thing I knew, John jumped on me and was swinging as fast and as hard as he could. He got me with a quick upper cut and knocked me clean out.

John says, my inner tube, with no regard to my condition, kept floating down river. right past them women folk. And as soon as they saw me they set up a hue and holler fit to bring down the gates of heaven.

My buddies, seeing me floating down river, with no never mind of where I was headed, left off their plan to scare those girls outta’ the river and set up a chase after me. By this time I was getting closer to the next bend in the river.  Devil’s Peak, we locals all called it. I am sure you can prolly guess as to why we called it that.

Devil’s Peak was not big as waterfall’s go. We were in Texas after all… not a lot of hills and such in those parts of the country, but I can guarantee a waterfall can be powerful mean to a body when it has the mind to.

So there I was, floating unaware to what could very well be my last trip down any river. John was hollering at the top of his loud lungs, “Wake up, wake up! You gonna’ go and get yourself killed!”  As I was just comin’ to, naturally, I wasn’t in the mood to take another hit.

I looked up just in time to see the roiling white water. The instant I hit the rapids, my tube flipped and dumped me headfirst into the churning river.

Good thing was I was now wide-awake and aware of my pending doom. Bad thing was, my tube popped.

I could barely see John waving his arms and yelling something at me, but couldn’t understand what he was saying.  Whether this was due to the water rushing around me or the fact that I had been dealt one of the hardest punches I had ever taken in my life, I don’t rightly know.

I went under the water again, but this time when I popped back up, I cold see John at the riverbank ahead of me. He was holding a limb out over the water. I struggled to reach for the tree branch on my way past him. Just when I thought I wasn’t gonna be able to grab the branch, something pushed me up from underneath the water.

As soon as the branch touched my palm, I grabbed on to that bit of bark as tightly as I could while John and the rest of my buddies pulled me to the shore.

I never did see what gave me that shove out of the river and saved my life, but my gut told me it was that golden haired vision I’d snuck a glance at before all the ruckus started. In my opinion, I was saved by a real live mermaid!

I didn’t tell anyone at home the truth of what happened that day. I didn’t have too. John had seen the whole thing. We never spoke of it together, but the look in his eye when he pulled me to shore told me he knew.

That’s how my life of traveling the rivers and oceans came to be. I went back to that river time and time again, but she was gone. So, I packed my camping gear and hitched a ride to the bus depot.

That’s where I ran into John, carrying his backpack.  Seems we were of the same mind. The two of us climbed on that ole bus without looking back and headed out to find that dream.

What’s that? Did we ever see the mermaid again? In later years, paddling one of my fancy, new folding kayaks? Well, I ain’t saying we did, and I ain’t saying we didn’t. You’ll have to come visit again sometime for another story and find out.

The author, Candace Clayton, lives in Granbury, Texas with her Husband and family, spending as much time in the outdoors as she can.

(Candace Clayton is an author who’s written novels, poetry and other short stories. She was kind enough to write this fictional adventure story specifically for the Inflatable Kayak Blog about ‘The Traveling Man’, a kayaker who tells us a tale about a youthful adventure with his buddies on the river where he grew up. We hope you enjoy it!)

I’m a traveling man by nature.  I’ve been traveling for pert near my whole life. I‘ve seen some interesting places, met lots of people, and enjoyed experiences I never woulda had chance to enjoy back home. I’ve traveled by horseback across the plains of Texas. Traveled by train across half the good ol US of A. I’ve flown high above the oceans to exotic places like Japan and Egypt. Even traveled down the River Nile by steamboat. Man that was some trip!  Course by far and above, my favorite way to travel is by Kayak.

Ah, Kayaking! I can still feel the wind in my hair and the water splashing back in my face. Man against nature, or more likely, it‘s man working with nature to get past those patches of whitewater. Mother nature always put on a show; fish jumpin’ in the water, cliffs and riverbanks flowing past me as the birds sing and the frogs croak. Course, those skeeters were pesky creatures, but the places I saw were worth a bit of discomfort.

My love of the river started when I was just a youngun. My buddies and I grew up on the good ol Brazos River.  Land sakes, I can’t count the hot summer days we spent floating down the river on our patched up inner tubes, which are a far cry from the inflatable kayaks we know today. Of course, we couldn’t very well afford kayaks back then. Shoot, we didn’t even have an oar! We didn’t care though. To us, those inner tubes that carried us from one bend of the river to the next were better than them golden chariots the angels in heaven use to get around.

We sure had us some good times on those hot summer days.  Days where the heat rises from the ground in waves and there ain’t a breeze to stir the trees. On a day like that, the river is the best place to be. Shoot fire, it’s the only place you can get cooled down at all.

Like I was saying, here we boys were, riding down that river, desperate for a cool breath of air. We’d almost gotten to our favorite swimming hole, just around the next bend where the water ran deep and cool.

Just as we were gettin’ geared up to dive out of our tubes into the water, we heard a horrendous noise.

Sounded like hundreds of birds a twittering and splashing in a birdbath, but when we got closer we realized it was the high-pitched giggling and squealing of a group of folks we had no intentions of sharing our swimming hole with: girls.

Sure enough, our eyes confirmed what our ears hadn’t wanted to believe. There had to be at least ten or so of those annoying creatures splashing around. We couldn’t believe our bad luck. No matter how hard we screwed our eyes shut, those girls wouldn’t go away.

My buddies and I were getting ready to run those dad burned females right off the river; when it happened. All of a sudden, right in the middle of the river, where the water ran the deepest and coolest, emerged the most beautiful mermaid I’d ever seen.

(Is it a real mermaid? Visit the Inflatable Kayak Blog (on Tuesday, 2-23-10) for part 2 of our story. If you’d like, you can set your computer to receive our RSS feed and you’ll be informed automatically when the next part of the story will be posted.)

The author, Candace Clayton, lives in Granbury, Texas with her Husband and family, spending as much time in the outdoors as she can.