My brother-in-law is climbing through the turns along the river, on his way to Montana. On the phone he told me he wants to paddle to Wild Horse Island. I need to get ready. The lake temperature is still in the 40’s and no one has access to NOAA’s Graphical Forecast with its critical information about wind direction, speed, and wave height—another casualty of government efficiency. Preparation and experience count now more than ever.

I lift the heavy, dark-green Maine Guide Bag off the shelf in the garage and carry it into the house. It contains most of the things I load into the car before driving up to the lake. Inside the main compartment I find the skirt my friend Mary repaired over the winter. The Velcro had become fuzzy and did not tighten across my tummy as securely as it should.

I pull out my Astral personal flotation device and test my memory of what I put where. Is the extra energy bar still in the narrow pocket and is the wider pocket still available for my phone, at hand when I want to take a photograph but also available in case of emergency? Do the inner pockets still contain nose plugs for later in the summer when I practice self-rescue techniques, extra sunscreen and lip balm? Does the small outer pocket on the left contain a stirrup to help me step up to the cockpit in the event of an unexpected spill? Does the opposite little pocket contain a paddle leash for exceptionally windy conditions?

I review what I’ve placed in the lime green bag for emergencies—water pump, fire-starter, a can of sardines, pouch of electrolyte solution, a towel, headlamp, and knit hat.

Because Ed and I will paddle in early May I want to make sure that I have my dry suit with its new wrist gaskets. I see the tightly folded Farmer John wetsuit for Ed and a synthetic shirt.  Reassured by what I am finding, I unzip the side pockets of the gear bag. Here I find my old neoprene booties and wonder if they will get me through another season. The ankle gaskets have cracked. I’ll give Ed my paddling gloves and trust my hands calloused from gardening to hold up under the friction of paddling. Ed can have the Pelican box for his phone. I make sure that the first aid kit has a spare key to the truck, my old Swiss Army knife, appropriate bandages, medications, a pen, tourniquet, and Ace bandage. In the opposite pocket I see my cerulean-colored paddle jacket that I love to pull on over my head and shoulders.

Satisfied that I have the essentials I need and that I won’t forget an extra paddle for Ed, I feel almost ready. I enjoy the rituals of preparation, the creation of order, and access to items that add to the margins of safety. At the same time, I notice how these objects stimulate memories. It is almost as if memories stick to pieces of gear. Handling my thickest neoprene gloves I remember conditions during a cold autumn when I welcomed their insulation. Looking at the leash I remember a time when a gust of wind stripped the paddle from my hands. Reviewing the first aid kit I remember a time when I desperately needed what it contained and did not have it. The towel reminds me of a swim and times I used it as a tablecloth.  As memories adhere to the big Stanley screwdriver, a silk tie, or the red sweater I inherited from my father, so stories abide in faded fabric, the snap of a buckle, the sound of a zipper. All this is part of the pleasure of paddling a kayak, an experience I hope to share with Ed, a man at home in the mountains, but eager to cross the strait on the way to the island. Now we can both look forward to Wednesday.