The 50-foot-long vaporetto, brimming with tourists, let out two shrill horn blasts as it plowed closer. All around me Venice's storied waters were roiling with activity: water taxis, police boats, produce barges...even a landscaper's boat carrying shrubs and potted trees. To my right the famous bell tower on Piazza San Marco soared overhead, flanked by the 12th-century Doge's Palace. But as the vaporetto barged forward, all eyes, craned necks, and video cameras pointed toward me -- and my red inflatable kayak.

I scanned the canal for a quick escape route, and with two brisk strokes barely slipped out of the path of the lumbering vessel. I could hear tourists chuckling as the wake splashed over me and adrenaline coursed through my veins. Rush hour in Venice.

When I began planning my Venetian kayak expedition, everyone told me the canals would be busy, but paddling here was like playing a real-life version of the video game Frogger. It was so crazy that I wasn't even sure it was legal. It turns out kayaking is allowed, and it's hands down the coolest way to experience the city.

Venice attracts 13 million visitors annually and gets so crowded during the summer that the area around the Rialto Bridge, Piazza San Marco, and the Accademia gallery has been called the "Bermuda Shorts Triangle." By escaping to the water I was free to explore the urban wilderness of La Serenissima and her labyrinth of more than 200 canals.

Having had enough of the hectic afternoon traffic on the Grand Canal, I paddled around Punta della Dogana to the Reale Societˆ Canottieri Bucintoro, an ancient rowing club established in 1882, where I was to meet my friend and paddling mate, Taylor Marshall. I was using the club as a base during my four-day trip and quickly fell in with the "Maestro," the Bucintoro's 73-year-old boat builder, Laggia "Mirto" Remo. Though he spoke no English and I no Italian, it was enough that we shared an affinity for paddling.

Mirto and his affable 35-year-old apprentice, Sebastiano Faggian, invited me to the kitchen above the boathouse, where we sat overlooking the Giudecca Canal. The Maestro and I tried to bridge the language gap but resorted to drinking red wine and grappa while he thumbed through stacks of faded, dog-eared photos, giving me a hodgepodge pictorial history of his life working on the water in Venice. "Mirto says he remembers when the canals were calmer, before the motos came," Sebastiano translated.

I spread a map of the city on Mirto's small wooden table, and the men highlighted special canals to visit and over-touristed areas to avoid. "They come exactly the same way every day," Sebastiano said with a chuckle. "I know where the tourists go."

By the time Taylor showed up at the club, I was amped to explore the insider's Venice. We inflated the other kayak I had brought from the States, gingerly slipped from Mirto's dock into the fray, and turned into a side alley canal. Then everything went quiet.

The water was eerily placid and pale green, like a milky emerald. I expected the canals to stink, but they were surprisingly clean. And although the summer sun blazed above, five-story buildings rose on either side, creating a man-made canyon that blocked the sunlight and cast a cool dampness at water level.

Here in the smaller canals, things were easy. We limboed under low bridges and slipped through canals too narrow even for the sleek gondolas. We skirted beautiful 500-year-old homes, once painted bright yellows, pastel greens, and sea blues but now faded, with moss and barnacles creeping up the walls. The rich sound of classical piano wafted down upon us as we floated past a tired brick building. "Bravo! Bravo!" an old Venetian lady called to us from above as she shook out a maroon carpet from her window.

Though we had a map, it stayed stowed in Taylor's kayak. No need. We were destined to be lost, because the canals have a logic all of their own. We'd paddle around aimlessly for hours, letting our curiosity lead us, until a landmark or familiar restaurant would give us a clue to our location. Thankfully, though, it's virtually impossible to get dangerously lost. The Grand Canal, shaped like a backward S, cuts the city in half and always led us back to our base camp at the opulent Bauer Hotel, where we attracted stares as we parked our kayaks on the marble dock.

One evening, after polishing off a liter of red wine and a tasty margherita pizza in the hip Dorsoduro district, we returned to the Bauer to get headlamps and glowsticks for a night paddle. Venice is strangely quiet at night; even the Grand Canal empties out, save the occasional vaporetto or tourist-toting gondola. Without the flood of boats we were free to relax, to float lazily along and absorb the beauty of the architecture.

We were stealth. Without trying we'd sneak up on tourists dining alfresco and couples kissing in the shadows along the canals. And because we moved as silently as the gondolas, the gondoliers were always surprised to see us. Some were interested in our strange kayaks; the lion's share eyed us with disdain.

The next day, back on the dock of the Bucintoro, we hung out with Tino Conte, a gondolier turned souvenir shopkeeper. As we recounted our night's paddle and the scornful looks, Tino just laughed.

"The gondoliers spend their entire lives going in a circle, following the same path for the tourists," he said. "You've gone places in their own city they will never go. They are just jealous of you and your boats."