Once, one of my brothers was wild ricing with a friend of his.
As accidents go, somehow the canoe tipped over and they and all their wild rice ended up in the lake.
Nonetheless, even though they appeared to be in water that was about four feet deep, the bottom was covered in a kind of silt that the natives call “Loon Poo” (socially acceptable last word substitution). My brother probably believed that after millennia of loons, fish, and other animals depositing their offal, that this layer was tens if not hundreds of feet deep.
If this were the case, and if he tried to stand on it, he probably thought as many Anishinabeg used to think (and some like me still do when no one is looking) that he would be sucked down to the depths by Misshipeshew–the great water Lynx, and drowned, never to be found again. Or perhaps, his body perfectly preserved, not found again by some anthropologist until the lake drained thousands of years later and put on display in a museum somewhere.
These things being probable might explain why my brother–being a decent swimmer, was floundering around in four feet of water trying not to touch bottom as the overturned canoe floated one way, the paddles and other gear all floating away in their various directions.
His life was irrevocably changed, when his friend, who had already found a solution behind him, smirkingly called him by name and uttered these two fateful words.