When one thinks of a canal, they most likely picture the "romantic" channels in a city such as Venice. Definitely not what equates to a moat surrounding vacation cottages on a small island located along the Eastern side of the mitt that is the state of Michigan. At least, that's how I'd like to picture a canal...unfortunately, I learned the hard way that canals in Michigan are nothing like their European counterparts.
Begin story:
It's early July, 2013, and I'm with my parents and younger brother (because someone, I won't even give this person a "fake identity", decided last minute to stand me up) to attend my cousin's wedding. My mom, being the awesome lady she is, rented a waterfront cottage on a tiny little island for the duration of our stay. Being a native Michigander (is that a word?), she wanted an actual vacation away from the suburban Detroit city where the wedding was being held.
The island was lovely, no doubt. The cottage-quaint. A gravel road led back to several cottages, each surrounded by essentially, what could be deemed a canal, and each cottage had a "cute" little bridge that led onto its property. I say "cute", because that's exactly what these bridges were when used properly.
On my last evening staying on the island, I went out for a drink with a friend I had made during my stay. Seeing as how it was later in the day on a Sunday on an island where the closest bar was 4 miles away (thanks, little brother, for making me walk there by the way...), this didn't quite come to fruition. Said friend dropped me off at the end of the driveway, still a good distance from the bridge to our cottage and left. It was pitch black and none of the cottages had outdoor lights on, so being the resourceful person I am, I of course used my phone as a flashlight. Until it died.
This is where the fun began.
Me (rationalizing in my head): It's not that far, I'm pretty sure the bridge is straight ahead. I'll be fine.
My foot: I'll just trip over this piece of metal (which happens to be a horn cleat...look it up), and we'll fall. I'm used to causing Freeway grief.
Next thing I know, I'm not hitting a wooden bridge over a canal as expected, I'm completely underwater, eyes open with a mouthful of dirt and seaweed (at least, I hope that's what it was). Thankfully, I didn't panic. Once I realized I was underwater, I knew exactly what had happened. Operation save my belongings kicked in...phone, brand new Dooney & Bourke wallet, cigarette pack, phone charger-all thrown up on the bank. Then, standing completely up, I realize that not only am I submerged 4 feet deep in water, but that there's approximately another 3 feet of steel (with no grips or places to climb out) preventing me from joining my belongings on land. Naturally, the first thing out of my mouth is, "F word". I assess the situation, look down at my throbbing and cut foot and knee, and then realize the item I tripped over is within my reach. Yes, I pulled myself out of that damn canal with the same item that landed my dumb ass there in the first place.
And sure, now someone decides to turn on the outside light to the cottage. I cross the bridge with my belongings (I made it out with everything but one flip flop and my lighter), and make it to the front door. I'm a soggy mess. My foot is cut, my knee is cut and swollen, I'm cold, and all I can think about is how my brand new phone isn't going to work. It's amazing what a hair dryer can do for electronics.
Needless to say, I've been nursing the knee injury ever since. Oh....and did I mention, my graceful self fell down a concrete stair last night? Yep, same knee. Same story. FML.
Still learning to walk without falling,
Freeway
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