I've become the butt of my own joke. A few short years back I loaned gear and canoe to a family couple. They treated it all well returning it in good order. I offered them the use of it any time. Heck, they could even keep it all at their place, I wouldn't mind. Even the canoe could fit down the storm cellar stairs into their basement. Cool! But no, they returned it all. Or I thought so, because I could never be sure with me being disheveled, disorganized, and forgetful. When my wife and I were prepping for a trip the following year I came up short. Couldn't find my tie down cam straps anywhere. Weird. Aha, I remembered showing them how cool my new NRS straps were and they liking them. Very much. Gawd don't you hate forgetful people. So I rang them up to gently jog their memory, where's my straps? He being a kind soul, he went easy with me.
"Um, no. I'm pretty sure I returned them. I used them to tie down the canoe I returned you."
"Well they're not here, not anywhere. You must've forgotten to return them."
'Um, well I'll look. Hold on."
I described the colour. Nope. He found some of different colours but none matching my good blue straps with yellow lettering.
My phone calls turned to texts, and then became testy texts. "Listen son (future sil), I love you and all but if you're gonna borrow stuff you've gotta take care of it. You know you're a little forgetful at times, right? But that's okay, you probably can't help it. Just keep looking. But I do need them in a friggin hurry.
The day before our departure I found them at the bottom of an unmarked grocery bag tucked away I don't remember where. I apologized in person, and backed it up with humbling texts.
Later that same season they came to borrow our stuff and canoe. Couldn't find the damn straps anywhere. I was sure he'd used them since the last misunderstanding. But hey, no problem, I've got miles of rope. Good rope. Hm. We wound up using a collection of castoff straps and rope. My good straps must be in the bag with all the good rope. Had they returned that?
They returned canoe and gear minus the rope and straps still awol. Which I stumbled upon the day before another trip of ours the very next year. But not after I'd pestered my sil for my blue NRS straps AND rope. Good kid, real good kid. The patience of a saint but damn he couldn't remember his way out of a paper bag.
This recent stag canoe trip involved the same him and me, canoe and gear. But I couldn't find the damn straps anywhere. What does this kid have with my straps?! I even checked the unmarked grocery bag still lurking in the bottom of I don't remember where. Did find my ropes though. Every day as the departure day approached I resisted the temptation to text him.
The day before departure as I stood debating with myself which good rope should be sacrificed for tying the canoe down I found the straps. In with the castoff lengths of paracord.
My wife and I stayed at their place the night before leaving for our separate trips, the girls off to a cottage, we guys off to our canoe put-in. All went well loading up. I'd kept the canoe in their back yard over night (can't trust neighbourhoods). Strapping it on and tying it down I then checked one last time to be sure nothing had been forgotten. Packs, bags, and barrels. Then I saw a brand new set of straps. Sitting up proud and proper, big and bright red in a handy dandy carry package. I looked at him and he shrugged his shoulders "Hey dad, ya never know,"
Here we are two days later and I'm sitting drinking coffee surrounded by packs, bags, and barrels. Canoe's put away and paddles hung up. But nothing's unpacked. I'm coming up with a game plan for failproof organized storage. Problem is some of this gear is his.