Against the Raging River

Two canoeists learn a painful lesson: In unfamiliar waters, caution trumps bravado

- By Nathan Munn

I WAS SITTING at my desk in a mirrored office tower south of Montreal when my phone buzzed. It was a text from Angus, my best friend since childhood. Our plan to go canoeing near our hometown of Ottawa was a go.

"Got a brand new canoe for us to use," he wrote. "What's your ETA?" I replied that I'd leave work early to catch a bus to Ottawa that afternoon in July 2017. I'd only be gone for 24 hours, a mini-vacation that seemed impossibly exciting after many months spent close to home with my wife, Cornelia, caring for our two-year-old daughter.

It had been a year since I'd seen Angus. But for years we were inseparable: as kids, then teenagers and into our 20s, we'd been more like brothers than friends. Although we'd seen each other infrequently in recent years-both of us busy with our families and living in different cities-he never felt out of reach.

Angus was waiting in the parking lot of the run-down Ottawa bus station when I stepped off the coach into the hot sun. We hugged and climbed into his oversized blue pickup, punk rock blasting on the stereo.

He drove and we shot the breeze. I felt the mix of comfort and apprehension that develops when you've known someone for 30-plus years-comfort at knowing the person in some ways better than you know yourself, apprehension as you wonder if you still have anything in common. But within minutes we had settled into an easy back and forth.

If Angus was the leader of our group as we navigated our teens-the rest of us paying close attention as he defeated bullies and attracted the prettiest girls, inspiring the rest of us to try to be greater versions of ourselves-then maybe I acted as a sort of consigliere, a trusted advisor.