Strait of Magellan, Chile:

I’m the only one in a group of eleven without a kayaking partner, so they pair me up with our 250 lb Spanish-speaking tour guide, Marco. We paddle out about three miles into the Strait. Well, I paddle. I don’t think he’s actually doing any work back there. We’re pretty far from land and it’s starting to feel like I’m pushing plywood through tar, but I don’t want to be a baby and ask him if he’s doing his share.  Plus, he’s making some strange squishing noises, so I don’t know if I want to start interacting.  I’m sure it can’t be what it sounds like, but in case he’s having good times back there all by himself, I’d rather keep powering through without knowing.

Another mile out and my arms are burning.  I’m positive he’s not doing any paddling.  One more dip into the water and I think I may die, so I suck it up and ask, “You okay back there, Marco?”.  He’s quiet, for a long time – too long. The squishing noise continues. I don’t dare look back, for fear what I might see. Finally, in a thick Chilean accent, he slowly says, “There is a hole”.  I can’t completely turn around, but get a glimpse of Marco’s seat, full of water.  Water squirts through his hands as he scoops it from our kayak back into the ocean.  Damn.  That’s worse than a party for one.

It almost kills me, but I wave my arms towards the shore, as Marco scoops. Eventually, a rescue boat approaches us.  Barely big enough to fit its driver, he won’t let us on.  Instead, he hands Marco a toothbrush-sized pump to drain water faster.  So Marco pumps and I paddle.  Two hours later, we reach the shore. Soaking wet, we’re pulled in by a husband and wife kayaking duo.  They help me out of my suit and hand me a glass of wine, but I’m too tired to lift the glass to my mouth. Instead I manage to get a Dorito in there and chew it before passing out in a chair. Next time, no matter what I’m afraid the answer is, I will ask before venturing farther.