“Oh woah, sorry!” 

“For what?” I looked up at my friend from the squat I just popped. Bare ass dangling over the rock’s edge, crouched and facing in toward the group, I waited. 

“Well, uhm, I mean,” he turned his body away, clearly wanting to exit the moment, and yet also still hovering out of politeness. The apology hung there, unnecessary. I just had to pee. I wasn’t paddling to shore, climbing over rocks, and hunting for a discreet bush only to get stabbed by a twig mid-squat. So, instead, I just dropped my shorts and peed over the edge of the rock. 

The first time I saw that move in paddling was over a decade ago on an all-women’s rafting trip down the Middle Fork of the Salmon. As we rowed the miles downstream, I’d see dots across the boats facing inward, grabbing the chicken straps, hoisting their feet against the outside of the raft and dangling asses above the water, sending dark yellow streams below. It was great –faster and easier than going to shore. 

I also experienced this on one of my three Grand Canyon trips. It was a mixed group, and we got used to seeing each other’s exposed bits; gender lines blur when your only options are the river or the bucket, and the beach is narrow and fully visible. You go, silently compete for longest tssssss, and move on. But both of these experiences were trips. Anyone driving to the river during tourist season knows that social rules and norms get culled on a trip. Except when among my fellow canyon goers, once I got back home, it was back into the woods.  

Until one day when I just stopped doing that. I just walked over to my truck tire, moderately discrete, dropped down and let it rip. I remember feeling the evening warmth of the fire at my back, I was so close to my friends. I mean, damn, just taking a whiz by your vehicle, or anywhere within a three-foot radius of where you decided you needed to piss is amazing. From then on, I favored convenience over convention.

And why not? I’ve been paddling for 17 years, 75-100 days on the water a year, 95 percent of the time with men.  At some point in the day, they will walk to just within the edge of our circle or lean lightly against something and turn around. Let’s be conservative and say every fifth time they’re not as careful as they think. Even using conservative math, that’s somewhere between 250 and 400 accidental dick sightings over those 17 years. More specifically, I’d say about 200-300 tips and 50-100 full hogs. One or two men per day assumes a small group. Think about popular put-ins and take-outs like the Cheoah, Gauley, Ocoee and Arkansas. The numbers here are often higher, but I’m averaging across all days of the year.

It’s okay. I don’t care about dangling participles, or that if we’ve paddled together a few times, I’ve likely seen it. It’s just math. You’ve got compounding exposure in a male-dominated sport plus gravity, worn-out shorts, and maybe a little false confidence. The apology my friend made on that rock came quickly and meant nothing. Discomfort like that just recreates that familiar awkward vibe that, in outdoor spaces, some bodies become ambient background noise while others still feel like an interruption. No need to apologize. Just let us piss off the rock as you do.