I had never been fly fishing, but I decided that a fly fishing vest would be a good investment.

In junior high, the multi-pocketed khaki vest certainly didn’t have anything to do with style. Tommy Hilfiger t-shirts, baggy jeans, and puffy white Filas were preferable. As is probably the case with everyone, I must have looked ridiculous. Realistically, wearing the vest was a 50/50 proposition between being stuffed in a locker or setting a trend.

Back then I made the purchase because I was going fishing. Camping, canoeing, and fishing, to be more accurate. I was headed off to central Virginia, to a cabin on the banks of a flooded quarry. At the time I had an enormous tackle box, filled with all manner of conventional lures. Rapala minnows, Berkeley worms, Rooster Tail spinners – everything I’d seen the guys use on Saturday morning TV. Dozens upon dozens of lures, all lined up in a giant Plano; a place for everything and everything in its place. Even as a teenager, bringing that monstrosity onto a small watercraft seemed ridiculous. A vest made sense.

After arriving to the cabin and throwing sleeping bags up on top bunks (teenage boys covet top bunks) we set off to fish. Smallmouth and sunfish were caught from shore. Logically, we thought, bigger smallmouth and sunfish would be caught off in deeper water. Illogically, we left fish to find fish.

Four vessels disembarked. Three with two teenagers, one with an adult. John was in my canoe. He had a penchant for quoting South Park and WWF wrestlers. He also had a monstrous tackle box, which accompanied us in the canoe.

The quarry was deep. Deep enough that not even teenage boys needed convincing to wear life jackets. The water was quite clear, so when a chartreuse jig disappeared far away below the canoe it emphasized the depth. Additionally, rock walls towered above us amplifying the vast verticality. You know that something is something when it is not lost on teenagers.

Whatever padding did for our senses of wonder, it failed to produce any fish. Quickly, angling turned to exploration – and exploration into competition. Knowing the demographic, it is probably not a surprise to hear that canoe-on-canoe contact wasn’t far behind.

The other canoe wasn’t going particularly fast when it hit us. In fact, they really only side-swiped us as opposed to making direct contact. The problem was that John saw me pushing their canoe away and thought he’d do the same thing. That was the fatal flaw in his plan, as it led to our ultimate undoing.

If you’ve ever tipped in a canoe or kayak, you know how it goes: there’s a frantic moment of attempting to steady the wild rocking, followed by the sensation of hitting the water.

All of that happened so quickly, and then I was looking down in to the depths. The life vest kept me afloat, but my gaze was transfixed downward. I saw John’s lures. Blades spinning and tails twisting, all moving at various speeds to an unseen bottom. It was a strangely beautiful sight. I righted myself above the surface, and it looked like a shipwreck from a movie. Bobbing all around me for a wide radius were wooden plugs, worm cups, and bobbers. All that was missing was flames.

John was still  gesturing animatedly and hollering quasi-profanities at the guys in the other boat. He didn’t realize the bulk of his open tackle box was mostly fathoms under us by now. I alerted him to his predicament. He made a sad attempt to swim down to save the slower moving lures while still wearing his life jacket. John was strong, but not stronger than the buoyancy of a type II PFD. By this time our chaperone had paddled over to help right the canoe and scoop up the few survivors of John’s once-formidable armada.

I opted to swim to shore. It was a long walk up the hill and to the cabin. Add to that wet jeans and saturated high-tops, and it was a bonafide trudge. Thankfully, I had dry clothes waiting for me and everything I’d need to kindle a fire. I also realized that my lure collection had been spared the fate of John’s because of my vest. I felt vindicated. I felt smart. I felt like some sort of genius, adult-like angler.

I felt stupid when I realized I didn’t have a second pair of shoes. Walking out to the fire in my socks, I placed my Filas close to the fire. After fifteen minutes or so I checked them. Still wet. So I moved them a little closer, propping them against the iron ring. I remember thinking more about how good of an idea the vest was. That hubris quickly turned to humble thankfulness as I thought about how I was safe. Keeping my lures was nice, but keeping my life was preferable. Recently I had heard about some teens who had lost their lives tipping over a canoe in shallow water. Planning and following directions mattered, but plenty of unfortunate people planned and followed directions.

The vertacality of life might not come on fully in junior high, but every once in a while we get glimpses of the height and the depth.

John came out of the cabin. He was in dry clothes, including shoes. For whatever reason, shell-shock I might have guessed, he didn’t seem phased by his misfortune. He just sat by the fire. And then John pointed out that the rubber soles of my puffy white Filas were melting.