It was the Sunday of a holiday weekend, perfect for an extra long paddling adventure. I took off in the kayak with the wind at my back. I know, I know. Never do that. Always start by going uphill, upwind. When you’re tired, you can still get home. But I figured it would be incentive to go farther, push harder. Besides, it was hot. So when I’d be working hardest, I’d have a nice wind in my face. I debated leaving my shoes on the dock and decided to keep them on, just in case there were scary spiders in the kayak. I threw in a small notebook into which I have written over the past many years, and a pen, in case inspiration were to strike. Before it was all over, inspiration struck, all right. But the notebook was in no condition for recording.
I sped along with the waves. I passed a dazzling white ibis, turtles galore, a couple of blue herons. A falcon swept and circled overhead. Slow cows from an idyllic rolling farm ambled out under broad branches along the shore, and a blue swallowtail butterfly dipped and bobbed around the startlingly red cardinal flowers that bloom wild around here. There were just enough clouds to be interesting, a few fisherman, and plenty of space. Nice, nice, nice.
I paddled the farthest I’ve ever gone, turned around a small island, and started back. Yup, harder. But I trucked along, “welcoming the heat” (muscles aching), just as the gentle instructor on the yoga video advises. Almost home and the wind was fiercest. I pushed into it, rounded the bend and, arms trembling, was within sight of the dock.
Then I saw the goose. It was on its side in the water, struggling to right itself in a bay near the local rowing club. There are a couple of things I simply cannot, against any kind of reason, bear. One is the suffering of animals. I lose absolutely all perspective. I am not a fan of Canadian geese. They have become invasive species. They lay down slick mushy cylinders all over our yard, and they mess up bodies of water throughout north America (and beyond, I’m sure). This kind of information does not matter. An animal’s suffering makes me near desperate to find it relief.
So, “Hang on, little goose,” I said, in my best I-am-not-a-threat voice and paddled toward it. I figured it must be hung up on something – a rope securing the dock nearby, a fishing line inadvertently snapped, a plastic grocery bag snagged on an underwater branch. Who knows. The wind was at my back, now. I got up near the goose, trying not to add to its misery with extra terror… and floated on by. Drat. I made another pass. I was close enough to get a hand under its feathered belly. I braced myself for a solid, frightened peck. But it didn’t even try. I tipped it gently. It rolled, and kept rolling, struggling on the other side now. It was not hung up on anything.
I couldn’t tell what was wrong but knew it would drown if I didn’t get it up. I tried again. It bobbed and fell, head underwater, then with effort back out again. At this point I was feeling really bad. The goose, judging from the circumstance was feeling worse. The boat swung around. I had kept it from the goose so far but couldn’t gain the leverage I needed. We were near shore. I figured, I’ll get out and stand, lift the goose to the dock, and let it gets its bearings there. What could possibly go wrong?
“Hang on,” I said again, took off my shoes, and put a leg into the water. I reached and reached and ever so slowly and with great control, I flipped. Not wanting to frighten 
the goose further, I made not a sound – no shriek, no squeal. I went under — oh, there’s the bottom – and came back up. So much for the notebook, so much for the shoes, I thought. I extended my legs again. I could barely touch the bottom, and it was a gooey gross mystery of slop, so I tread water hard and lifted the goose, submerging myself again in the process.
I had put contact lenses on, leaving my customary spectacles with their splendid “transition lenses” at home lest I get a weird tan across my cheeks and nose. Now, one of the contacts had shifted off my iris or fallen out of my eye altogether. The goose slid back, toppling very near my face, though my vision was fuzzy. I massaged my eye, hoping not to be introducing some weird parasite. Still fuzzy. I’d have to deal. The goose was no better off. For a moment, I thought what irony if it pecked my eye out. But it was remarkably patient, or simply exhausted.
With one more effort I hoisted it up onto a boat’s flat pontoon… and off on the other side, struggling again. I got up on the pontoon. Remarkably, the kayak and its paddle had blown into a well-bounded slip. I lifted the goose by its belly and stood, finding that the combination of a light breakfast and rigorous paddling left me woozy. I leaned over, took a breath, and with the goose still firmly between my hands, inched along the pontoon to the dock.
The goose’s wing got free of my grasp and actually seemed just fine. That was a relief. But when I set it down, it tipped over again. Something was wrong with one of its legs, or maybe it was a foot. I brought it a stretch of grass near some dense shrubbery and a little ways from the water. It couldn’t stand. I allowed myself a whimper of pity for the poor bedraggled creature. But I hoped that if I got out of its way and it had a chance to rest, it could fly.
I went back to the kayak, amazed to find it not only conveniently nestled against the boat’s pontoon but with the paddle bobbing at its side. And inside, floating around the seat were both shoes and my notebook. Even the pen had survived. Shaky, I made for home. I dumped the boat at the dock and dragged it up the hill to put it away again. There, over the little knoll, I could see a black head, one shiny eye bobbing slowly, up-down, up-down. No way, a goose limping down the gravel road onto the lawn that fronts the water. I walked closer. Definitely limping. I looked back toward where I’d left the goose in the grass at the rowing club.
In order to get to this place by the absolute shortest route, it would have had to walk a good fifty yards, navigate through heavy bushes, swim a bay, navigate more bushes and actual woods, to end up sauntering down the drive. No way. I put the kayak back and started toward the house. Sure enough, that lame goose was walking into the yard. And not just that one, but another. Of all things, lame. There were five of them, a family it seemed. Two of the other young ones walked all right. But the biggest one – the mother, I assume – had a broken wing.
I’m sure there’s a lesson in this somewhere, a moral or some kind of cautionary tale. But standing in my dripping clothes, my shoes squishing under my feet, waterlogged notebook in hand, I was hard pressed to say what it is. I can say that it felt like some cosmic joke. Perhaps God was snickering from the shrubbery, a knotted hand over her wrinkly mouth. Always the suffering. Always it’s there. Always we do what we can, always the world will deal more. The dogs greeted my return with enthusiasm as predictable as it is delightful.
Postscript: I know these things:
1. Never handle a wild animal.
2. Most often they are best served by giving them space and peace. Agreed.
3. If the animal is in clear distress and/or is creating a dangerous situation, call the authorities.
Exceptions apply.
