In fourth-century Egypt, a theological debate started between two Christian priests within the early church. The debate was over the nature, or more specifically, the ‘substance’ of Jesus Christ.

One priest, Arius, argued that the Son of God had not always existed; therefore, he was not eternal and not of the same substance as God the Father. The other, Bishop Alexander of Alexandria, argued that the Father and the Son must be of the same substance, and therefore the Son must be eternal.

The debate grew. Constantine, the emperor of the Roman Empire at the time and the first Christian to hold that office, formed a council to address this and other issues threatening to divide the Church. The council ultimately decided against Arius. They concluded that one God exists in three distinct, divine persons: God the Father, God the Son, and God the Holy Spirit. This became known as the doctrine of the Trinity and was eventually adopted by the Roman Catholic Church, the Eastern Orthodox Church, and all Protestant denominations. However, nontrinitarian churches persisted, and many years later Jehovah's Witnesses became one of them.

Recently, I brought a canoe home from the fish pond at our hunting camp. It was in bad shape. It was the beater canoe of what we call the farm. It was cheap and unstable, and since it was acquired more than sought out, it suffered the worst abuses of farm life. For instance, it had been used as a sled behind an ATV in a field, its riders hanging on for dear life. It was thrown in and out of truck beds without regard, and a giant hole in the front came from a lawnmower that got just a little too close. Because of all this, I knew no one would miss it if I brought it home, and having recently sold my boat, I was a bit anxious about not having some kind of vessel around the house. Further, though my wife would disagree, I needed a project. But like most of my projects, this one quickly went over budget and behind schedule.

I sanded and sanded, and fiberglassed and fiberglassed, and I epoxied and painted. I removed the front seat, 1) to fit two children in the front and 2) to lower their center of gravity and stabilize the already tipsy canoe.

The inaugural trip was to the Mobile-Tensaw Delta with my 6-year-old boy and 7-year-old girl, during which my daughter informed me that the canoe had passed the first test, which was, of course, that it did not sink. It was a low-risk first trip; a sunken canoe might have meant dinner for the local alligators. Next on the list was the nearby Perdido River.

Prior to that trip, the canoe had all but taken up a summer residence on the table in my backyard. When we couldn't find childcare for those two children for Fall Break, I decided to take vacation, and float and camp on the Perdido River. It was just what I needed, a deadline. A deadline and, though my wife would disagree, an ambitious plan that would put my children and me out of cell service and in potential peril.

Online, I found a company that will remain nameless. Google AI said this company “provides premier canoe and kayak rentals that pair seamlessly with fly fishing and local outdoor exploration.” Perfect I thought, and called them up. On the other end, I got someone I will call Greg. I asked Greg about river conditions, water levels, the feasibility of taking two children on an overnight excursion, and finally if he would shuttle us between boat launches. Greg was friendly and seemed knowledgeable and agreed to shuttle us for a small fee. However, I was a bit taken aback when, as we were getting off the phone he said, “Okay, I love you.”

We were running a bit late on the day of the float, the service at Waffle House was unusually poor, which I should have recognized as a bad omen. Greg was waiting when we pulled up. But, I did not realize it.

I expected to find Greg waiting in a somewhat professional vehicle, maybe a roof rack for canoes, maybe a company logo on the side. This was not the case. He drove a grey Ford F-150 extended cab, that I am going to guess and say was a 2005 model. It looked like a crew truck for a logging outfit, beat up on the inside and out from a life in the woods, traveling roads that aren’t actual roads at all.

Greg was overweight and had a long, grey, and unwieldy mustache. He wore a cadet hat and a Real Tree camo shirt that needed to be buttoned twice more. “Walk down there and see the boat ramp, see where you’re going to take out,” he grumbled.

He did have an extension in his receiver hitch to support the back of the canoe. However, the spare tire in the back of the truck posed a bit of a space problem, especially after he insisted the canoe ride right side up. I had my doubts but decided to defer to the professional. We, and by we, I mean I, negotiated with the spare tire for room. Greg did not offer much help until the canoe was somewhat situated, then he tied it down. We all loaded up and we were on our way.

My dad likes to tell a joke that he heard on Car Talk, the long-running, call-in auto maintenance show on NPR. “What is the difference between a Fiat and a Jehovah's Witness?... You can shut the door on a Jehovah's Witness.”

Well, we had unknowingly climbed inside with a Jehovah’s Witness and shut the door, there was nowhere to go.

Once inside, the first thing he asked was, “So, do you go to church anywhere?” At that point, I knew we were in for something; however, I expected the Southern Baptist version. When I told him I went to Trinity Episcopal Church, I suppose that was all he needed to know. “Well, I like to try and educate all of my customers,” he said as he reached for the literature he kept on the dashboard.

What we got was less an education and more a disjointed diatribe. He went on about the Trinity, heaven and hell, and how all my priests had lied to me. Earthly governments and institutions are evil, he told us, though I do not know if this is official Jehovah’s Witness doctrine, or just the southern flavor of it. Also, I’m not sure about their belief in air conditioning, or if Greg just chose not to use his. I was sweating in the front seat and when I turned to the back seat to check on my kids they were red faced, and wide eyed.

He told us that the steeples on churches were a pagan phallic symbol. I thought, “thank goodness my kids don’t know what that means.” As if responding directly to my thought, he said “all these churches have penises on top of them.” And he lost me at that point, I went from ‘Oh really’ and ‘that’s interesting' to staring blankly at the passing pine trees and regularly turning around to check on my children.

We couldn’t get to the point of entry soon enough, but it was a slow ride down the winding Wildlife Management Area roads. It didn’t help that Greg would come to a complete stop every time he would shuffle through the laminated papers on his dash to find his next handout, and talking point. I began to worry that he was not taking us there at all. Finally, the road began to descend and I knew the river was close. That was when my daughter leaned forward between the two front seats and said, “Dad? The canoe is not in the back.” “Greg, we lost the canoe!” I said. We turned around at the boat launch. So close.

We backed tracked about a mile down the sandy road and found my canoe right side up and right in the middle of it. There were several deep nicks and scratches in my freshly painted canoe. But one spot in the front of the canoe was particularly concerning. It was the point that bore the initial brunt of the fall, which punctured the fiberglass. Greg suggested electrical tape, for which he looked for and didn’t have. Then he asked if I had any bubblegum to chew up and put it in the hole. After considering the damage, the risks involved in going, and what might actually work to prevent a leak, I decided to proceed with the trip as planned.

I put the canoe back in the truck, upside down this time, but still having to jockey with the spare tire. I kept a close eye on how Greg tied it down this time. He was clearly embarrassed and concerned. I thought at least we would have a quiet ride for the rest of the way. Not so.

We reached the launch and I unloaded. I took the canoe to the river and my kids helped with gear. It took a couple trips. Greg watched from his driver's seat. Once we had everything by the river, I pushed the canoe in, situated it parallel to the pea gravel sand bar, and loaded it up. It was the moment of truth, and there was no leak. Greg was still watching from his truck. The last thing he said was, “think about what I said, I want you and your family to reach the promised land,” an ominous departing word, then “I love you, brother.” I made no gesture of farewell from the river, just eased the canoe into the current and slipped away.

The Perdido River is a 60-mile river that forms Florida’s western border with Alabama and eventually discharges into Perdido Bay and the Gulf of Mexico. It has served as the boundary between the territories of five different countries (France and Spain, Great Britain and Spain, and the United States and Spain). The river is considered a blackwater river, typical of the lower reaches of the coastal plain. Decaying vegetation in the soil releases acidic, organic compounds called tannins into the water. These tannins give the water a dark, transparent, Shiner Bock color.

According to the Alabama Department of Conservation and Natural Resources, “The Perdido River is considered to be the highest quality free flowing blackwater river remaining in the southern Coastal Plain. Its corridor encompasses 120,000 acres of Alabama’s largest and most ecologically significant blackwater watershed.” Since 2006, states on both sides of the river, and several other organizations, have been purchasing land along the river and within its corridor to ensure its protection. Work is ongoing to reestablish native longleaf pine forests within the area.

Our plan was to float roughly 7 river miles to the designated campground, then float just over 2 miles to the take out point and my truck.

For the record, “Are we there yet” is not reserved solely for road trips. Camping along the river is only allowed in designated areas and my kids wanted to camp on every patch of dry sand we saw. It was a beautiful day though. The sun was shining and the current was strong. We stopped a few times to take breaks and explore. I caught a couple feisty river bass and gave some fly casting lessons. Still, we were all antsy to get to where we were going. The children because they had let the uncertainty of the whole trip creep in, and me because I wanted plenty of daylight to make camp.

The campsite was a sandbar in a long bend in the river. By that time, the gravel in the river had given way to sand. I beached the canoe and I commenced to unload. The kids gathered firewood while I set up camp. We popped popcorn, swam and fished, cooked hotdogs over the fire and made s’mores. We played ‘Go Fish’ before bed. The next morning was cool, clear and crisp. I built the fire back up and made a fine camp breakfast. Then I loaded us back up.

The float back to my vehicle was only a couple miles. I let the current push us most of the way back, steering around the fallen trees that the river had long ago consumed. We made it to the landing, banked, unloaded the canoe, and loaded the truck. We were leaving the river with a sense of accomplishment, and relief. And with hopes for a bed and a nap.

Other than the rocky start, the trip was a huge success, but the whole thing was a ton of work. Outdoor adventures with kids are never what you hope. You don’t get to relax, be quiet and be a witness to nature. They are not still for long enough, or quiet long enough to see the things that you’re sure will enamor them and keep them coming back.

I’m realizing that, as a parent, you do all these things to give your kids experiences, and mostly what you get in return is stress and frustration. It is a thankless job. But if you are lucky, amidst the chaos, you get a moment, maybe two, of something hard to describe but feels whole.

I had one on the Perdido River. The camp was set, the kids were swimming and laughing. The sun’s angle was low and illuminating the next bend in the river. I was casting my three weight to the opposite bank. With the kids playing nearby, I had no chance of getting a bite, but the line's weight felt good as I bent the rod, and it went where I wanted it to. Their laughter in the background provided the perfect tempo for my casting. It was fleeting, though, as they always are. I’m sure someone got hurt, or an argument started, something or someone needed my attention. But in that moment, there was something. I cannot tell you its substance, and I do not know if it was one, or three in one, or the whole universe in one. But it was complete.

As we were pulling out, I saw a grey pickup truck coming towards us; it was Greg. I moved over on the single-lane road and rolled down my window. Greg pulled up beside us and said, “Just making sure y’all made it out okay.” “Yeah, everything was fine. We had a great trip,” I replied. “Good, any blockages in the river?” “No, a couple tight spots, but we never had to portage.” “Okay. Well, be careful, brother. I love you.” I looked at him and gave him a nod, but as I pulled away, I said to myself, “I love you too, Greg.”