Mid-vacation, my husband and daughter went fishing. I took my son Max to the beach to try kayaking. I have kayaked before but he was a newbie. Max was eager and after I told him a few things he paddled in a big circle close to shore. He was a pro immediately. No tipping or problems turning. Just a smooth circle. He went around again. And again. Clearly he had this.

He paddled up to the shore and asked if we could go for a short paddle. He has these eyes that could make you want to give away your kidneys, both of them, if he asked. I agreed to a short paddle, close to shore. My hesitation was due to not wanting to press my luck. I had my third spinal surgery last summer and I am still getting stronger. I’d had a good week so far on vacation but was trying to respect my limits.

I pushed my kayak up to the shore, tucked my ziploc-baggied cellphone into my swimsuit top and shoved off, ignoring my other concern. The boat my husband was fishing in carried my life vest. Max had his on but mine was off catching fish in the belly of the boat. To be clear, there were some in the rental house waaaaaaay at the top of the hill I could try. Or I could tell Max that we should wait until Dad got back. Instead, we paddled out.

Max was obedient, and stayed close to shore. Out loud I gave him a few tips, “Don’t turn around to see me or you may tip,” and “Your paddle is upside down.” Internally I was berating myself with “You are putting him at risk, too. What if you fall in and he is frightened? What if he falls in and you can’t help him for fear of going in?” To be fair to myself, we were if 6 feet of water 20 feet from shore. But I knew I was making a risky choice.

At that moment, I focused between my feet and saw I had a stow-away. A fat spotty toad was squatted in the point of my boat. His head, then all of him peaking out from the Styrofoam float wedged in the tip. To my credit, I did not flail and fall into the water. I said, “Oh dear,” in a way that reminded me deeply of my Mom, turned around, and told Max we had to paddle back for a minute. We paddled, my eyes clocking the toad’s slow progress towards my feet. He seemed unperturbed by his voyage and ready to mingle.

I got to the beach, and I encouraged (ok shrieked at modestly) Max to get out of his kayak and help me up before I was attacked. He scrambled up and helped me out. We caught our breath, and then the real work began. We flipped the kayak. We banged on the outside to encourage Bob (we named the toad Bob) to leave. After thirty minutes of banging, water sloshing, tipping, giving up and trying again, we finally flipped Bob into the lake with a paddle. (No toads were harmed in this story. Bob swam away then hopped down the beach to continue his stowaway life in the neighbor’s water craft).

We recovered, apologized for the things we said during toad removal, and went for a very modest paddle where we mostly sat right off shore and rode the gentle waves. I know what could have happened if Bob hadn’t shown up because I know myself. In an effort to overcompensate I may have told Max he was doing so well we could go further. I would have pushed myself to make up for all the times I can’t do things. It could have been tragic or at least frightening.

Instead, we ended up with a funny story, a new kayaker in the family, and a dose of humility for me. Whatever higher power you believe in, keep an eye on the toads. They seem to be in cahoots.