Partly true. I carry them with me, and I occasionally wear them on long crossings, but I've never had to use them. Until...
A perfectly perfect morning in Port Townsend, Washington. My beautiful cedar strip kayak was loaded with camping gear and attracting a crowd, as usual. I answered questions and handed out some business cards, explaining that it would be at least a year before I could start a boat for them. Hopefully nobody has both money and patience (lots of both!) or I might have to work!
After a wonderful breakfast (Otter Crossing: great place!), an unsuccessful stop at the bathroom (a bad omen), I pulled on a pair of Depends (just in case), put my Ziplocked kilt under the bungee, and sealed the spray skirt around the cockpit. Rider and kayak are now one! North: twenty miles to Canada!
About mid-channel, the pressure started. With a mixture of absurdity and stupidity, I looked around for the nearest beach, knowing none were about. Looking again, for the possibility of flagging down a boat. Strike two. Pointing the boat away from Sooke Harbor, my destination, and toward the nearest land, still miles off. The cadence of the paddle increased, knowing I was going to fail. Shit happens.
To the observer, if someone had a telescope, it would appear a kayaker was taking a rest. Odd...
No smell, thanks to the seal of the spray skirt. After filling a diaper, for the first time in over fifty years, I realized I had not considered the obvious: what now?
Cleaning up was not an option. The only choice was to go on.
The average kayak requires about one thousand strokes per mile. Ten miles to go. Ten thousand times I would have to twist, shift weight, and feel the poop squish from one side to the other. Sometimes "yucky" is an insufficient word.
After a while of paddling with a grimace, something happened: the diaper completed soaking up the (substantial!) moisture, and I was getting almost comfortable! I started to smile and think up jokes for around the campfire. ("Thank god I didn't eat five-star Thai food! Ha ha-ha!")
My welcome to Canada was an empty beach on which dried, very compressed poop was removed with sand and salt water. Cold butt and shriveled balls were covered with a new diaper (just in case!); and now, north to Sooke. Where I gave my friends cartons of cheap American cigarettes and a great story. They gave me hot buttered rum, and a tub.