Supplies sat in the driveway like a garage sale. We only wanted a few of them. The car wouldn’t fit the kit bags, fire starters, poles, sleeping bags, bandages, firewood, kerosene lamps. If Dad had his way, the car would be packed with only enough room for my arms to steer and a hole to see out of. It was much more than we needed for one night.
Somehow we’d negotiated only taking the tent, two sleeping bags, two ground mats, sandwich stuff in a cooler, a first aid-kit and two flashlights. They were neatly leaned together in the back.
“Have you ever had sex in a canoe?” Sandra asked me, punching the ground mats so the door could close.
“Nope,” I said, “I came close once, but we broke up before it could happen.”
If Sandra and I had sex in a canoe, she’d be on top, and we’d be near a waterfall. Our swimsuits would be dripping on my forehead. She’d be wearing a sun hat, for fun—the paddles would get in the way. Eventually, it would be easier to get rid of the paddles. We’d toss them overboard, still able to find them in an hour or two.
“You?” I asked.
“Never,” Sandra said. “Although lots of times outside.”
“Nice,” I said. We talked quietly so Dad couldn’t hear us.
He was comparing tent poles, one of which was repaired with duct tape. He looked very perplexed.