A river runs through him 💩 🚣🏼

It started like any other leisurely kayak outing. My brother and I had decided to spend the afternoon paddling around the lake, pretending we were rugged explorers instead of two suburbanites with water bottles and SPF 50 sunscreen. The weather was perfect — blue sky, a soft breeze, and the gentle lapping of water against the hulls of our kayaks.

We were maybe two hours in, enjoying the solitude, pointing out turtles and birds like amateur naturalists, and occasionally racing just to see who had more upper body strength (spoiler: neither of us). Everything was going smoothly. Peaceful, even.

But then, as we began the return trip toward the dock, I noticed something change in my brother’s demeanor.

At first, it was subtle — a slight furrow in the brow, a twitch at the corner of the mouth. Then came the quiet grunting, the slow paddling, and the squirming. I figured he was just tired. But then he leaned toward me across the water and, with the most serious look I’ve ever seen on a man in a kayak, muttered the words:

“I have to poop. Like, right now.”

Naturally, I laughed. Who wouldn’t? We were so close to the dock — literally 200 yards away. That’s a two-minute paddle, tops. I told him to hold it. Dig deep. Find the strength. He glared at me like I had personally cursed his intestines.

“No,” he said. “You don’t understand. I can’t hold it.”

Panic set in. Not for me — I was still enjoying the show — but for him. He looked around, eyes darting like a trapped animal. There was no cover nearby, no secluded spot, no shoreline to scramble onto. Just open water and two kayaks.

And that’s when he made his choice.

Without warning, he dropped his paddle, swung one leg out, and launched himself over the side of his kayak into the water. It wasn’t a graceful exit — more of a panicked, lopsided flop. I watched, frozen between awe and horror, as he staggered upright in the waist-deep water, yanked his shorts down, and assumed the position.

And there, 200 yards from the safety of the dock, my brother pooped in the lake.

For a moment, the world went still. The birds stopped chirping. The water calmed. Time itself seemed to pause in reverence for this absurd spectacle. He looked around, checking to see if anyone had witnessed his shame. Just me — the only witness, and unfortunately the one person guaranteed to never let him live it down.

Then came the aftermath. The water, which once seemed like a solution, was now an unforgiving battlefield. Because, you see, water doesn’t make things disappear. It makes them float.

It was hysterical. He tried to move away from the evidence, splashing and muttering curses, but the lake had other plans. His kayak was drifting. The wind was picking up. His paddle was floating out of reach.

Now came the real challenge: getting back into the kayak without flipping it — and without reuniting with the floating disgrace he had just unleashed.

This, I must say, was the best part.

He tried the usual method — hoist yourself up on one side, swing a leg over, settle in. Except that works best when your center of gravity isn’t compromised by panic and shame. The kayak wobbled dangerously. He slipped once, then twice. On the third try, he actually got halfway in before overcompensating, nearly capsizing himself — the kayak teetering like a carnival ride.

At one point, he let out a primal yell, not unlike what you might hear from a man trying to lift a car off a loved one. Only in this case, the “car” was his own dignity.

Eventually, through sheer desperation and luck, he flopped into the seat like a salmon into a shopping cart. I don’t even know how he managed it. A miracle, truly. But the moment he settled, he realized he was facing the wrong way. He had mounted the kayak backwards.

I lost it.

I was laughing so hard I almost dropped my paddle. Tears streamed down my face. I couldn’t breathe. He looked at me, defeated, soaked, backwards in his kayak, and floating dangerously close to the scene of the crime.

“You tell no one,” he said.

And I said nothing. Because I couldn’t. I was doubled over with laughter.

We paddled — slowly, silently — the last 200 yards to the dock. We were both wheezing with laughter. We didn’t speak much on the drive home. But the silence wasn’t awkward. It was the silence of shared trauma and exhaustion from laughter.

Of course, I immediately told everyone.

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To this day, any time someone in the family hesitates for even a second before going to the bathroom before a trip, I just say, “Remember the kayak.”

He usually changes the subject.

But deep down, we both know. It was the day the lake took more than just his composure. It took a piece of his soul.

And left behind a legendary tale we’ll be laughing about forever.