In my first newsletter, I laughed at my bungling ineptitude. Some folks misunderstood that as unkind to the club and its mission of safe paddling.

Let me set the record straight: Were it not for the expert paddlers on that trip, I would have been in serious trouble. They knew what to do and did it with precision that would have made a military search-and-rescue crew proud. Before I knew what was happening, they had me out of the water, salvaged my gear, and warmed me with hot tea and clothes from their own packs. Nothing ever tasted so good as Judy's amazing home-made granola bars.

Subsequent discussion brought the suggestion that I continue with a journal of the “newbie” for the benefit of other newcomers, so here we are, with regular installments as I learn.

When I first joined the club, friends asked me why anyone took lessons. Hey, you just put the paddle in the water and go, right? Wrong! You can do that on a flat lake but on moving water, you need to know some basics or you can endanger others as well as yourself. That was the message I got. One of the benefits of the club is group activities and lessons.

So I took lessons. Bear in mind that we’re discussing someone who flunked out of dance classes and still stops her bike with her feet. If I could just do it on a computer... Anyway, here I was with a proper ACA-certified instructor alongside and the assistant in the stern of my canoe. They alternated barking commands at me. I could not make two strokes without criticism. It was not fun and, worse, it was not effective. I learned the words “Draw” and “Pry” but I had no concept of why except to amuse myself with perverted ways of using them on the neighbor who suggested this insane venture. Draw and quarter him, by golly. Pry the nose off his face for meddling.

In retrospect, I think I tried lessons too early. It's hard to listen when you're still scared of the way a boat wobbles.

My new friends kept trying to help. One invited me to practice in his beautiful canoe. He showed me how to climb into it at the dock.

“You put one knee in, hold the other side…” I repeated his instructions aloud as I put one knee in and promptly flipped the canoe upside down. He lost his watch trying to stop me (I did send him a new one with an apology). He spent hours showing me strokes I couldn’t imagine ever using. He watched in horror as I rammed his lovely craft into a concrete bulkhead. He gave up and left town.

Then I paddled the Sabine with a big, happy group of over 100 canoes. All by myself in a solo canoe. 32 blissful miles. No one yelling at me. I fell in love with the river. I tried moving soundlessly through it, feeling its motion, letting it take me into another place where my weary soul could heal. Much later a real guru explained the concept of progressive spiritualism to me as the way you have to move in stages away from stress and into the calming influence of nature.

But I didn’t know that then. I just knew that the canoe didn’t wobble. I could make it move and control its direction. I had a broken kneecap from falling on the rocks but I didn’t care. In fact, I was ecstatic!

With each club outing, the experts helped me. Recently, a kind soul pulled our canoe into an eddy and let me play with the paddle, changing the angle slightly with each stroke. As I repeated his motions, he caught me mid-stroke and explained how I would capsize us by changing the angle just a few degrees more. Voila! Suddenly I know what happened the last two times I took the plunge. Why couldn’t someone have told me that a year ago? Because it wouldn’t have made sense back then. Some of us learn differently.

I might be ready for lessons now.

Learning how to paddle a canoe is great fun, even when you land in cold water once in a while or, in my case, almost every time. That’s not the club’s fault. Getting wet is ok. Mud washes off. The feeling of mastery doesn't.

A gentle soul calls me “Ms. Muddy Knees” and I think that’s cool.

Maybe it’s the kid in all of us that makes us paddle.