I would get out and push, I really would, if only I had the proper footwear. By “proper footwear” I mean insulated, water-proof boots that come up to my knees. Why would I need such footwear? Well, I’m sitting in a 15-or-so-foot skiff, piloted by the young man who owns it, and we are stuck on a sand bar in the mouth of the Togiak River. In total there are six people in the boat, and we are headed from Twin Hills across Togiak Bay to the much larger, grocery-store-having, community of Togiak. Most of us are going to pick up groceries, but two people in the boat have a family errand of some kind. Some of us, me included, have used the need for groceries as an excuse to embark on a smallish field trip.

The boat’s owner had told me that he would be leaving at 6:00 p.m., adding that “it should be deep enough by then.” By this he meant that the tide was coming in, and by 6:00 there should be enough water in the river to allow the boat to get through. However, he also had to consider the approaching sunset, and gauge the potential depth of the river against the scenario of skiffing back across the bay in the pitchy dark while pushing through tiny icebergs.

By 5:15, he was ready to go, and my husband and I and another friend jumped on our four-wheelers (aka “Hondas”) and zipped over to the launch spot. We were early, and that’s a good thing, because people in this community don’t like to wait around for folks who can’t find their gloves. There were two boats going, piloted by two brothers, and each boat would contain five or six passengers. They got the boats in the water (one’s trailer had broken down and they used metal pipes as rollers, while the other backed in attached to yet another four-wheeler. ‘Scuse me, honda). The river wasn’t deep enough yet, and the two boats, plus a third piloted by somebody’s cousin, took turns getting stuck on the shifting sandbars. Those wearing the right boots got out and pushed at opportune moments, while two others (including my husband Scott), started poling.

Side note: “poling” means to stand in the boat, grab a pole, and start pushing the boat by sinking the end of the pole into the riverbed and leaning on it with all your might. While others were engaged in the pursuits I have described, I sat on my bench and entertained my seatmates with stories of my dad poling the boat up the James River for Sunday picnics when I was a kid. Occasionally I murmured about getting some good boots.

Meanwhile, the boat’s motor kicked up giant rooster tails that were mostly sand and started making scary noises. Somebody asked the boat’s owner if the motor was ok. He grunted, “I don’t care. It’s overheating, and that shaft is probably bent, but I’m going to keep going. If it breaks, it breaks.”

It didn’t break, and I got a two-fer: a few treats from the grocery store, and something to write home about.