The bridge looks smaller downstream

While blasting down the highway on the outskirts of the city, lightning flickering like a hairlight on the horizon, I noticed my deflated dinghy in the bed of the truck bobbing up and down.

It was barely tied down. Rather, it was secured with the verve of a sleepwalker tying his shoe, the yellow rope halfheartedly draped over the 30-pound inflatable boat.

I was afraid first that it might fly out and cause an accident - but then my fears turned to a police officer pulling me over for my East German rope and attitude. In the GDR, this rope would have been the only available rope, these knots the only allowable knots, and my resourceful attitude commended. Lifting up the boat, the cop would have discovered my shirt and bra -- likely still drenched and smelling like North Saskatchewan river mud.

And I would explain this is how I run my life. I leave muggy clothing under a dinghy in the flatbed of a truck for a week.

A perfectly acceptable situation. Like fresh muffins from the oven.

The bra and shirt had served a purpose. On the dinghy, they were the mermaid sculpture on the bow, trying vainly to keep dry, where nothing could safely stay dry.

The water world journey had started with great promise. We had lifejackets. We had wine. We had time. We heckled old men fishers at the shoreline.

The problem was I'd decided to be an optimist. I chose to see the world through rose coloured wine and that led us downstream to a fantasia island of mud, the current beating us back, and back, and back.

I ditched all top garments in favour of just the lifejacket. My two friends also abandoned the idea of staying dry. After running and sliding in the mud for a while, and then letting the mud swallow us like quicksand so we had to fight to get out, we decided to row back.

With my pink bra at the bow, we set off. This dingy was powered by female vitality. And the brawn of three girls nudging a dinghy against the current like crocs nuzzling a zodiac.

Push the sun down past the horizon and spin the clock forward. Three hours later, we looked more like rugged wanna-be boat hands in Conrad's Heart of Darkness.

I also had no shirt. Or bra. And was forced to borrow clothes too small for me so that I had to wear a shirt as a skirt. Together with my thick button-up coat, I looked a lot like a beggar from 19th-century Russia.

In our new garments, we headed to the small-town bar, ordered massive amounts of fries and chicken fingers and learned about how Van Gogh painted over earlier paintings from the flat screen TV.

And didn't talk. Every muscle was crying like an infant. Saying even "beer" exerted energy none of us wanted to spend.

We briefly considered staying the night at the bar/hotel, before hopping into our respective vehicles.

My one friend said she washed her clothes today, and got her non-river clothes dirty after washing them all together.

I've avoided taking that road, hoping rain water will wash them out first.