ONE UNSEASONABLY warm morning in late fall, an e-mail arrives from a backcountry skier who's chosen an obscure vegetable for his screen name. "How about talking about adventures while having a martini?" he writes.

Vegetable Man sends two photos. One shows him tearing down a slope, knee-deep in snow. (I can barely see his face, but the action shot is sexy.) The other reveals a balding guy with a sweet, boyish smile and charming green eyes. I e-mail back and suggest meeting the next night at a SoHo haunt called Raoul's.

When I arrive, my date is waiting at the crowded bar, wearing a bright-orange shirt that screams "bachelor for too long." I'm already planning potential exit strategies, but I decide a drink can't hurt.

Veggie says he once worked as a Jackson Hole ski instructor; now he's a freelance film editor. He's got nice arms, I notice when he takes a swig. As the martini buzz comes on, I start feeling a faint attraction.

"There's nothing more romantic than watching the sun go down over the river and the lights come up on the Manhattan skyline," I say, suddenly inspired. "How about going kayaking on the Hudson at sunset?"

"Great idea!" he replies.

It is, until we actually do it—on a November day when an Arctic front sweeps in and breaks the warm spell. By the time I show up at the Manhattan Kayak Company for our adventure, a mile-long loop in a double kayak from 23rd Street to the New York Waterway's ferry terminal on West 39th and back, the temperature is 30 degrees and falling.

Instead of gazing longingly into each other's eyes, Veggie and I are shivering in full wetsuits, life vests, and wool hats. I'm praying we don't capsize as we head north on the Hudson River under a chemical-orange sky, barely crawling against three-knot currents.

I'm up front. Veg is in the back, breathing hard and struggling to steer. Our guide, Kayak Company owner Eric Stiller, is ahead of us. "The double kayak has a long history of being the marriage boat or the divorce boat," he yells. "If the person in the front isn't setting a good pace, then the person in the back has a hard time staying on stroke. You have to work as a team." Super! Meanwhile, powerful currents are sucking us backwards into something that looks like Charybdis on crack. My date is barely speaking to me. I can't decide whether it's because he's the strong and silent type or because he's so scared he can't talk.

"I think it's too hard!" I shout.

"Let's not give up!" says Veg.

Stiller points us toward what he calls "the nest of ferries," a challenging 250-yard sprint across the main ferry thoroughfare between Manhattan and New Jersey. To avoid hitting the wakes—or, worse, getting plowed under by one of the vessels—we have to carefully time our crossing.

"Only half a dozen of our regular clientele can successfully make it across at rush hour," Stiller announces cheerfully.

Veggie and I do our best, paddling furiously in an effort to achieve maximum cruising speed.

"Watch to your left!" Stiller shouts.

I look left and see a huge wave—the wake from a monster ferry—crashing toward the side of our boat. I momentarily panic, imagining the headlines in the New York Post: SINGLE WHITE KAYAKERS STRUCK AND KILLED ON INTERSTATE DATE. "THEY BOTH COULD HAVE DONE BETTER," WITNESSES SAY.

I paddle hard on the right, Veg does the same, and we turn just in time to face the approaching water and surf over it.

"This is getting fun," Veg says.

An hour ago, the ferry building seemed impossibly far away, but now we've reached it. We turn around, catch a swift-moving current, and effortlessly glide back down the river. The sky has bruised to deep purple; glimmers of light from the Empire State Building skip off the jet-black water. "You guys work well with each other," says Stiller when we arrive back at the dock.

On water, maybe. But after Veggie and I hit pavement and grab something to eat, I find out his conversation skills aren't half as good as his paddling. The spark between us fizzles.

The next morning I get an e-mail from him. "I don't think we have the romantic kismet that it takes to date," he says. "Can we be friends?"

I'm cool with that. At least until we meet again at Raoul's a month later, and he tries to pat my ass under the table.

Check, please.