It started with a list.

Granted, with my dad it often starts with a list. Sunscreen. Bug spray. Very groovy flap hat. That sort of thing. Old joggers – because you will fall in the water. Crash helmet. Because you will hit your head on a submerged rock and die.

We’re canoeing down the river in Kangaroo Valley, on the south coast of New South Wales, and dad won’t let anyone in their canoe without presenting a ticked-off checklist of necessities. Change of knickers. Sunglasses. Mum-made sandwiches. We have it all.

We’ve been told there are rapids and that we’d be supplied with helmets accordingly. The water is high given all the recent rain and someone carked it in this river a few years ago when it flooded, a kid on a school trip from Sydney.

In the event, the rapids were little whooshes of foam over five centimetres of water. Still, and somewhat amusingly to the rest of us, my sister’s boyfriend manages to capsize the both of them in it, leaving the rest of us to scoop up their flotsam of camera cases, water bottles and oars floating down the river.

For the most part, though, it’s altogether tranquil going. Particularly as dad’s an especially deft rower, so I spend much of the day with my feet up and oar in the bottom of the boat.

Six canoes in total, the twelve of us float downstream, pausing occasionally to yell at each other over the roar of the cicadas “PEACEFUL, isn’t it?” “Yeah, TRANQUIL – BEWDIFUL day!” and park in amongst the branches overhanging the river for snacks, only to find the canoes suddenly teeming with spiders. The water dragons, scores of them that line the banks, thankfully don’t find their way into the boats.

Crash helmets might have come in useful later, on the minibus trip back to the canoe depot where the cars are parked. With two dozen people (plus one wasp that kept on trying to get in through my

window) piled in, plus all the canoes dangling off the back of the trailer, we have some slight momentum issues trying to climb the hill leading up from Bendeela camping ground. No doubt the lone cyclist trailing behind us is somewhat alarmed to see the sight of us barreling backwards down the hill, engine stalled and brakes screeching.

But after a few more false starts and the distinct whiff of the gear box burning we’re on our way again, careening around a hairpin bend, which, thankfully, no one is coming around. Back to dry – and flat – land again.