Until El Yo and I bought kayaks, all I knew of male anatomy was the usual; by which I mean I'm over the age of consent and that's all I'm going to say. But after one particular boat trip out on Lake Champlain, I learned many secrets of maleness; that men use their dicks not only to pee and procreate, but also to tell time, navigate, run a stopwatch, chart the tides, scout for underwater rock formations and collect data on windspeed and temperature.

Let me explain.

El Yo and I had just come into possession of our boats, and were looking for a starter trip, a quick jaunt out on the water, mainly to break in the logistics of trip planning. We decided to take a quick lake paddle: in at Mallett's Bay Marina for a few hours of farting around in the nooks, crannies and coves that ring the marina. A round trip of roughly 4 miles, on a calm, clear day (mid-70s, 1-2-foot waves, thank you Weather Underground).

You should know, at this point, that lakes and rivers are extremely different in terms of things like tides and winds and water readability and the presence of obnoxious motorboats at unsafe speeds. This goes double for Lake Champlain, the sixth largest lake in the United States. We don't call it The Missing Great Lake because of prozac. It's fucking huge. And even while I have quite a bit of river paddling experience, I have a healthy respect for being extra-cautious out on lakes. It's a lot less predictable and more terrifying, what with outboard motors generally trumping skin.

The trouble started only 10 minutes into the trip when one of us (the one with the snack pockets) requested a snack break. I know what you're thinking, but I have an ulcer, and by 1pm all I'd had was a granola bar and a cup of strong coffee (don't start; everything you could email me about coffee has already been said nine times by my doctor). We were paddling across the mouth of a cove, fairly calm, when I made my request. El Yo's response was to insist that under no circumstances should we stop in the cove, because the motor boat going by a half mile away would create a three-foot wake and we'd need to be prepared for not getting smashed up on the rocks.

Part of his statement was correct. Rocks = bad. And a three-foot wake would have been trouble, if there'd been one anywhere around us. There wasn't. In point of fact, coves are the perfect place to pull over and take a breather, because you have many more options presented to you by the presence of shores and docks in case of emergency.

This was El Yo's other problem. Under no circumstances could we touch someone's dock without their written permission, notarized three weeks in advance. I don't know anyone who has a dock who would deny a fellow boater in a true emergency. Like being swamped by imaginary three-foot waves. At this point dear reader, you may be asking yourself whether we were on the same trip. I had the same question stuck in my head as I navigated my burning, angry stomach across the mouth of the cove, round the point and across the harbor to our pre-set landing point.

It turns out that dicks trump not only experience and common sense, but also reality. In the post-Snackgate analysis, El Yo "just knew he was right" about the wakes, the cove, dock etiquette, quantum mechanics, psychic messaging between bees and the current location of Lord Lucan. He just knew.

This has happened before. There seems to be two very different styles of boating. The vast majority of the trips i've taken have been girls' weekend or all-women skill retreats, and female culture is such that when one person wants a snack break, everyone pulls over and snacks, even just a little, to keep that person company. This goes triple for peeing.

And on the mixed-gender trips I've taken, this is not the case. Two girls will pull alongside each other, whisper, and then suggest stopping briefly for fuel. And then without fail, some dude will mention that the current target of the paddle hasn't been reached, so come on ladies, suck it up.

(Yes I know, I'm a sexist pig. Just don't call me a piglet.)

Of course, this process can backfire. Once a guide told me about an all-woman sea kayaking trip in Mexico where they hadn't packed enough tequila (a common problem, I find) and they spent, by her estimation, two full hours taking turns talking about how they'd each feel about drinking the last of the hooch that night versus the following night. That's commitment to community.

I think in reality these are cultural differences. Women work at building community, men achieve goals or die trying. Often in spectacular ways, just to ensure their names are boldfaced in the grade 10 history books. And so what was occurring with El Yo and I was a simple communication breakdown. Neither of us were taking into consideration the goals of the other person. I think it might have worked better if I'd suggested not that we stop for a snack break, but because a "fuel-related issue was hampering our speed production". And I'd probably still lose on where to take it, because El Yo just knew we couldn't stop in the cove. He. Just. Knew.

So I want one. I want a dick. Not, installed per se, but mounted on the deck of my boat, and then every time I need navigation, weather or topographical advice I can just reach over and gently tap it with my paddle, and it will merrily rise with the breeze, sniffing cautiously at the crosswinds before pointing the way towards land, safety, and maximum fuel economy. Perhaps when there are decisions to be made I can simply lean in close, and it will whisper in my ear all the secrets of the universe, especially those related to dock possession.

Couples counseling would probably be cheaper.