The C.U. police department didn’t seem too enthralled when I called them up a few weeks back to report that my boat had gone missing somewhere between Forest Home and Beebe lake.

“You lost your … kayak? In Fall Creek? Are you kidding me? It’s barely above freezing out there,” the officer responded.

“Yes, I swam and lost my kayak,” I admitted.

“I just wanted you to know, so you didn’t go looking for a body or something,” I said — adding to justify my foolish behavior: “I didn’t do it on purpose.” I didn’t see the point in explaining about The Hole, so I told him to call me if they heard anything and hung up.

The Hole? It’s that recalculating mess of current you see under waterfalls, dams and ledges. When water moving downstream flows over an obstacle, the surface water flows back upstream, creating a hydraulic (not unlike when you pour beer down the side of a glass). Some holes are good, great for tricks and cartwheels. For the record, the hole created by the ledge 1/4 mile down from Flat Rock on Fall Creek is not one of these holes. And when I missed a paddle stroke and dropped into it the other day, I was in for the washing machine ride of my life.

That’s all it was, really: like being in a washing machine. The upstream current flipped my boat, slammed my head against a rock, then held me underwater until I rolled up for air. At which point, the upstream current flipped my boat, slammed my head against a rock, and held me underwater until I rolled up for air. At which point … wash, rinse, repeat. It is called getting “Maytagged.” And even after the third or fourth cycle, when I decided to swim, pulled out of my boat, and watched it drift away in the current, the ride wasn’t over. I was still in the hole.

I controlled my hyperventilation long enough to notice a friend paddle over and give me a “What’s up?” look. He was probably confused as to why I had taken such a stupid line down the last rapid and was now swimming in almost freezing water. His confusion obviously impaired his hearing, because when I shouted, “Throw me a rope!” he heard, “Go find my boat!” and paddled downstream, leaving me in the hole for an additional sixty seconds or so before I kicked out and found my way to shore. My friends found my paddle, but by that time, the boat was long gone downstream.

I’m the third Cornellian to own the yellow Lil’ Joe kayak. Unlike these predecessors, I have never carried it on my head while uni-cycling up Buffalo Street, or crawled out of it and up the walls above Lover’s Falls with one dislocated shoulder. But I hope I am the first, and the last, to have construction workers dig it out of the mud and ice of Beebe Lake in early March.

Then again, every paddler knows that we’re all just in between swims.