I own a bunny suit. I can’t remember why I have one. I think that seven or eight years ago, Old Navy came out with one-piece pajamas, and the bunny onesie just sounded like a good idea after that. The first one I had was pink, but I left it in Ireland for someone taller than me (not hard to find), and P.J. got me this one. It’s gray with a white belly and has a hood with big floppy ears, a full zipper, and unlike most bunny suits, it’s footed with fleece that’s warmer than wool socks and elastic at the ankles that makes it perfect for a short human pretending to be a bunny.

This is in my possession because, while I’d be mortified to the edges of the Universe if someone besides P.J. saw me in it, the bunny suit is the warmest garment in the history of ever. It’s doomsday material. The fleece is miles thick and except for your face and hands, the suit has you covered. It’s the thing you put on when you have a fever and are having chills. It’s the thing you put on if you were stuck outside and just came back in and you’re shivering and need to get warm quickly. If you wear it when your heat goes out, you sleep soundly anyway. This is a bunny suit to be reckoned with.

It even has a carrot zipper pull and a fluffy white tail.

That’s not what I came here to tell you about. I came here to talk about the kayak incident.

There is little that P.J. and I have found in nature that is more beautiful than autumn in Vermont as seen from a lake. Call it a cliché, but it’s only that because it’s true. The lakes in Vermont are dotted with sailboats and kayaks long after the summer swimmers and paddleboards disappear. People picnic on the shores, bundled up in flannel shirts and windbreaker jackets and scarves. Red-cheeked artists set up easels. Photographers carefully step out onto rocks.

The kayakers are braving those waters knowing that they’re downright dangerous. By mid-October, the water in many lakes has fallen to 55 degrees. That water is cold enough to cause muscle rigidity, a pounding heart, rapid breathing, and confusion. It shocks the body. Even without shock, the colder the water, the shorter the amount of time the body can stay in before blood pressure begins to do interesting things and words like “embolism” can enter the chat.

That’s why when P.J. took her Hobie out onto the lake, she was appropriately dressed in wetsuit gear and aware of the risk.

And it’s a good thing, because after a wonderful time kayaking around the lake, within ten yards of approaching the boat ramp, something in the water behind her went KERPLUNK SPLASH. P.J. turned quickly to see what it was and the Hobie rolled and dumped her right into the waiting frigid waters. That’s when she learned that her wet gear was completely inadequate, and she hurriedly walked the kayak the rest of the way to the ramp and hoisted it onto the trailer and went home, blasting the heat in the van the whole way and thinking only of getting warm.

When she got home, she realized that a piece of the kayak was still in the water. The important piece. The Hobie has a drop-in component called a Mirage drive that acts as flippers under water and lets you paddle by pedaling. It’s basically a kayak pretending to be a duck.

It was non-negotiable. We had to get it back.

“We’ll have to agree on sections to search to minimize the time we’re in the water,” P.J. said. We planned it out. She would wear her wet gear and other things on top of that. We’d have poles to feel around and swim shoes so we could feel with our feet. She gave us four minutes, tops, and then we had to get out of the water, no matter what.

“I don’t have any wet gear, though,” I pointed out. We thought hard. Then it occurred to me. “I do have the bunny suit! I could just wear whatever in the water and then change into the bunny suit as soon as I got into the van. That would totally work! Were there, like, other people around at the boat ramp, or was it pretty deserted?”

“There was one truck, nobody else. You could change in the back.”

The next day, we returned to the lake in late afternoon, when the sun was aimed at that patch of water and we’d be able to see the bottom. We told the crew working on some renovations to the front of the house that we were going to grab some dinner, knowing they’d be gone by the time we got home. They didn’t need to know why we threw large bags of towels and clothing and two paint roller extension poles into the back of the van.

We stood at the edge of the water and reiterated the four-minute rule to each other, then thought long and hard about the beauty of the lake and the joy of kayaking and how important it was to get the Mirage drive back. But love of P.J. was the only thing that was going to get me to enter that water, so I thought about that, too, and steeled myself, and counted to three, and then counted to three again, and resolutely waded in with my pole to catch up with P.J. We braved it.

Four minutes later, there was no sign of the Mirage drive. We’d only struck mud and grass.

There were two trucks in the parking area for the boat ramp, but as we peeled off wet clothing in the van and dried off, we decided they were hunters and off in the woods somewhere. P.J. dressed warmly and I put on my bunny suit. Within a minute, I was cozy and warm. We got into our seats in the van and stared at the water, perplexed. Where was the damned thing?

Discussion on the drive home concerned submersible metal detectors and next steps, which found us rational right up to the point where we crested at the top of our driveway and saw that the work crew was still there. P.J. made a casual remark about how it was sunset and she didn’t understand how they could even see what they were doing, but I said, “OH JESUS FUCKING CHRIST I CAN’T GET OUT OF THE VAN THEY’RE GOING TO SEE MY BUNNY SUIT!”

There was nothing for it. Not only did we return home without a key bit of kayak, I also had to walk across the driveway to the front door with a fluffy white tail shaking behind my butt and floppy ears. The workmen were intelligent and ignored me, or maybe it was too dark to see, in the dim of twilight. The walk from the van to the door took more fortitude than wading into the water.

Epilogue: The next week, we traded a six-pack for the loan of an old jon boat, and we tried for an hour to find the Mirage drive using rakes. It’s still at the bottom of the lake.