Fatherly advice from a friend, oh shit this is the end of the vacation. The start of life.

It came though the window, resting warmly upon my shoulders. It had grown warmer, each day seeming to last years more, each moment slowly passing with the gentle ease felt in this captivating valley. He sat next to me, his beard allowing thoughts that he might have endured more time than his thirty years. Breakfast rested newly in my stomach giving my legs no motivation to jostle and disturb the internal peace. Spring was over. Summer had forcefully overtaken the cool days and cold nights, and refurbished the climate with blistering heat. We sat with our backs to the large picnic table which sat noticeably in the corner of the log cabin. He sighed and rested his callused hands upon his knees and cast a glance somewhere in front of my feet.

"Well Joncito, Camp Puesco is ending" his gaze shifted to the side of my head. I looked toward the corner of my vision, an uncomfortable gaze of uncertainty.
 "And I don't want you to be completely dependent on me..." he continued his words came with a stalled flow of deep thought on how they should be phrased. "So you now maybe you want to find something else to do with your time here....I am not saying you have to leave, and don't think I am kicking you out or anything, cause I am not.....I am just saying that you should start to make a life for yourself apart from Camp Puesco..." his flow was interrupted by the distant laugh of the others in the cabin.

"Giving your son some fatherly advice?" came the jest of one of the guys washing the breakfast dishes.
"Yeah!" he said, his face quickly allowing a smile to steal his expression. "Get out there boy, and make me proud!"

Three days later I sat in an office. It was cold. She sat across from me dressed in a manner that showed nothing but professionalism. The room was bare except for files, and a certificate hanging in the corner. Void of any small trinket or picture to show a life apart from work. She checked over my paperwork, her eyes moving quickly but methodically. Her questions came suddenly and caused my heart to race, the impression of an interrogation hard to dismiss. I survived the inquiry, I was handed a paper, I was a legal worker in the Republic of Chile.

In the beginning, I was horrible. I stumbled through the foreign words of hunger. I fumbled my way over peoples heads, clumsy hands awkwardly trying not to spill orders. The worry of a contract terminated from my errors stifling my usually charismatic attitude. Two moths have rushed past. The memories they have given swirling in my head. Too many stories to be told, to many moments to be shared, too much change to be realized, and a slight improvement on waiting skills, a minor improvement on bartending abilities.

"How you doing man?" his accented words hit my half asleep ears, my brain furiously working to respond. "I am good, I was wondering if you have space today?" my hopeful words came slurring out. Each day is as though I play slots, pulling the lever hoping the four kayaks come swirling into my eyes, allowing me for a free day kayaking on the Trancura. "Yeah I think so" he says, a friend offering a chance to shoot up, a chance to obtain the fix, to stifle the inner junkie, to feel the current.

My dreams still cause mental exhaustion hard to ignore. I still feel frustration towards those I encounter. I still feel an inner turmoil when thoughts turn to the end, change, love. I still am the person I was, but I know now who I want to be. Who I can be. Who I shall strive to be. The vacation has been over for months now. Working 40hrs a week, kayaking, running, playing guitar, dancing, drinking, and laying in the searing sun on the black sand beaches, has become my life. Writing has become my passion, kayaking has stayed my love, and I still fall for ever girl I see, but as walk home from my favorite bar at 3 in the morning, my steps hardly straight, I smile as I turn onto my street, and close my eyes. Ears fill with the sounds of the night, the drunken Spanish, the yelling of intoxication, the distant rushing of a car, and remember the days of this time last year. I have traveled so far, with ever kilometer, learning something new, feeling more happiness.

This is the last HOLDYOURBREATHANDWAIT for the Summer (Winter if you are in the states) a special thanks to everyone who has impacted my life here.

LJ, Rob and Monica, Rodrigo, Marco, Richard, Todd, Pablo, and all the others friends I have found here.

The impact of Christmas

Everything went calm. The left of my chest ceased the rhythmic pressure of a rapid nature, and slowed to a eerie calm. Whites with deep blues rushed toward the surface, expelling pent up energy then vanishing to repeat the process. The warmth around me betrayed a different season than I was used to celebrating this day on. Christmas was upon my thoughts, the holiday season far from the nostalgia of my youth. A mere couple meters away was a horizon. A horizon I had stared at twice before, with eyes wide from fear, thoughts calculating the probability of injures, lost gear, and anything which might impede future kayak trips. The thunder of the 21 meter drop below was evaporated and dissolved by a deep focus. A focus akin to the ancient struggle between man and the elements, his mother, his brother, and his enemy. My eyes stared at the eternal seam of bubbles, a guide to success. I took a last breath, and leaned to my left, the red of my kayak swerving into the oncoming rushing of water. Eyes locked forward to see the landing, arms moving separate from core keeping the line, body neutral, everything tense with anticipation. I felt the sudden dropping of water into the air, the mixing of the like minded molecules. My body on autopilot, my brain blank, absent of thought. As my landing dissipated from the focused eyes, wrist relaxed and the paddle took flight. I leaned forward abs burning from the strain, fingers clinging to the nose of the kayak, and sucked in the last breath before closing my eyes, and waiting. A horrid sensation overcame my body. The nose of my kayak had lifted from its piercing knife like angle, and now was threateningly flat. Fifty feet rushed by in a second an a half.
Impact.
Blackness.
A gasp of air.
"You just did a 70ft waterfall dude!" came the radio like voice of a good friend to foggy senses. My shoulder burned from the muscle memory of a hand roll. My head throbbed with extreme pressure. I blinked hard hoping to focus the scene around me. My neck felt weak as though it was supporting a bowling ball. I struggled to gain focus. Someone place my paddle in my hands. Someone else shoved a box of wine into my chest. I drank. The fiery blood red liquid seared my throat and stained my lips. The realization of what I had done hit me in one swelling wave. I let out a whoop which was swallowed by the amphitheater like walls. We paddled the run out. I scraped through shallow boulder gardens, and snaked past logs, the whole time a deep cold threatening my composure. I stumbled out of my kayak a few minutes later, shouldered it clumsily, and with the tentative steps of the inebriated started for the road. A mushroom cloud of dust rushed toward my face as I dropped my kayak on the gravel roadway. I unbuckled my helmet and took it off with a grimace of pain. My fingers crept toward my forehead. They came to rest upon a alien bump, the swelling spreading rapidly.
We drove home.
I cradled a beer in between my hands and allowed my lids to slid shut. Outside the window, hidden from my dazed position, the large green mountains watched out return to Pucon, a certain familiarity lost.
The swelling subsided.
The reality of what I had done did not intoxicate my brain, fill my lips with ego, or cloud my judgment. All it allowed for was a calm moment. My eyes relaxed, muscles receded from strain, and my thoughts wandered back to the moment. The moment of release. The moment of commitment, the moment of the absence of fear. The moment of waiting for the impact. The moment of waiting for the surface. The moments for which I live.

19km of life part 2

Part II

 

The squishing of rubber against hardwood cast an audible vibration which rushed past hungry eyes, thirsty lips, expectant bellies. Drinks swayed threatening the confines of the frosty clear mugs. Salty droplets of sweat clung to near tan, tired looking cheeks. A conversation with another spilled past the bubble of privacy and into the peripheral ambient noise where it was soaked into wooden walls. “They were making bets on how old I was and where I was from” came words floating out of my mouth toward the bar.

“How old are you and where are you from?” came a sudden questioning reply from the table to my right. My eyes shifted past my right shoulder, studying the faces which awaited a response. They were the same faces I had seen move past my bar a few days ago. Then, I could not shake the feeling that I would once again study the contrasting features of each girl, or woman maybe, except now with the care of one who wants to see past the venire. “18 and Oregon” I said as I quickly spun backwards making sure not to spill the drinks, and disappeared out the door toward my table. I could hear the whispers, “What did he say?” “Oregon and 18.” I smiled, but just continued to rush from the bar to the assortment of tables in and outside, shorts swishing against the apron wrapped tightly around my waist. Night slid across the streets stealthily but with a welcomed presence. I stood outside, tray tucked under my arm relishing the now present peace. “Is it impressive we climbed the Volcano?” the words rushed into my brain and sat down, waiting for the nerve pulses to commence with response. I cast a studied glance at the five girls before me. Would it be impressive to them that they stood on the backdrop of Pucon, the fire spewing chain smoking monument of nature’s ever moving presence? Probably. “Yeah…it sorta is…” came a weak response of the affirmative. “How many people climb the volcano?” came a reply from the New York looking girl. “I get like two tables every couple days who say they have done it.” That answer seemed to taint their accomplishment. They gave me more reasons for which to be impressed. I was confused. Why would my approval mean anything? I agreed with them that it was impressive, my own opinion of the matter still locked in the jury room. Soon enough, as it always does, my kayaking experience came up. I got anxious, why? I still don’t know, but I suddenly didn’t really want to discuss the sole reason for my being in Chile. Halfway through a story, another table was filled by a Chilean family. I left, lost among the recesses of my brain, searching for answers. Answers to what? Only the night could know, and the day could interpret. With tables stacked, the labored addition of gates to windows and door, and the final rhythmic motion of cloth against polished hardwoods, work ended with a nervous signature.

The key turned with a familiar resistance, the thudding of feet against the narrow wooden stairs echoed among the multi roomed apartment. I stumbled into the living room and slung my bag off of my aching shoulders, my sore feet. Within moments my computer was illuminating my face. I knew what I was about to see. I had felt it coming like the warning of the red morning sky. I could see the storm. I could feel the impending thrashing of boats against moorings, the collapsing of piers, and the fury within. The message caught my attention. Every fiber of my being suddenly tensed. Breaths grew shallow and fast as the pulsating pump in the left of my chest succeeded in turning my face red. The words were an olive branch. One coated in pain, held out by the selfish hand of the bewildered. My eyes darted across the page, burning from the cold light of the computer screen. I read and re-read the message a few times, seeing the perceived hypocrisy, hearing the conflicting accounts. Whether she missed me or not, it was not her choice to speak to me. It should have been mine. It should have been me to delve back into the torments of the love, the insecurities fertilized by ill-timed words, ignorant actions. My fingers moved rapidly across the keys. They expressed the anger felt, the injustice which welled in my flesh. My hand moved in a blur slamming the screen shut, moving my landlord, and friend, suddenly into a sitting position. My calves strained as I shot upright, words of anger which can only come from perceived lost love spewing from my mouth shaking the house with their calm yet cold execution. “I am going out! And drinking and drinking!” I proclaimed seeking refuge from my mind, the memories of that night. Marco, my friend, noticed the sudden change in tone, the foreboding look in my eyes. “Buy me a beer” he said as he slipped quickly into a jacket. We rolled out of the house, two more roommates noticing the slammed door and following in hope of good time, a few beers. Rock and roll music akin to the 1950s blared with foreign words, as Marco and I sat outside at the bar, two beers fit snugly into our hands. “Jon!” I heard the words but did not look. “Jon!” it came again, and I knew who it was. The group of girls from before. I excused myself from the bar and went over to their table urged onward by their inviting hands. A beer down, and two Piscolas later I was staring into light blue captivating eyes, silhouetted by mid length blond hair. Her mouth moved and words tumbled from her lips, but I did not listen to the meaning, but instead fixed on the eyes. More drinks later, the conversation between the girls deteriorated with words were that seemed harsh between friends. I could feel the mood shift as a scene familiar to high school was acted out between two of the girls. The tables were being put away for the night as the moon moved low in the sky.

 We walked with them a block, parting ways as the alley that lead to our apartment appeared. I watched them walk away. People I would have like to spend more time with. People for which my studying gaze could wander taking in the subtle movement of the eyes, the hand as it grazes my arm, the sudden downward look of unsure emotions. I knew I should not look at the computer, I knew what it would say. A response from my swaying hands, clumsy fingers poured out on the screen, a visual representation of long harbored feelings. A response which turned into a fight. A fight which saw four in the morning turn to five, and another slamming of the computer screen. A day which I wished to never forget, full of beautiful whitewater, learning, and new friends now tarnished by the need for closure? Closure of what? I believed the door to be closed the night I hung up the phone. Sun saw my face, eyes popped open to the afternoon. The beach lent itself to a rolling session of hours. A manifestation of energy which needed to be expelled.

I stepped onto the bus then next day, paddle smashing into the seats, scraping the windows. The driver tried to tell me that it was not allowed, but I waved him off saying “esta bien” with the repetitions of a psychopath. Gear piled upon my lap, the bus sped toward the Palguin, as the confused looks of my fellow passengers allowed for no seat mates. With a flurry of smoke followed by an attack of sneezing, the bus rolled away from the turn off for the Palguin, and into the afternoon. I waited. Soon I was prone as heat boiled my skin. My lifejacket lent itself as a pillow. I checked my phone. They were very late. I contemplated catching the return bus back, and spend a few hours on the beach, but shoved the thought away hoping for their arrival, needing to kayak.

19km of Life Part 1

Cool droplets of salt, the draining of pores, slid down form a curly matt of golden hair into eyes, sending nerves reeling in stunned fiery pain. Feet burned, the canyons of toes tearing from the cheap rubber soles and ill placed straps. Muscles strained against the swaying pack, the clinging of broad straps to skin, the eternally forward fixated head. Deep in a valley, surrounded by granite peaks, familiar green pastures, and the mammoth volcano signifying an Argentinian presence, I was wandering into a place of peace. A place I now wished to be my home. A place where I had wandered down crystal clear streams, watched smoke slither from thatched houses while smells of carnivorous ecstasy stirred the primal nature within, and where I discovered the man I knew I could attempt to emulate. Now I walked. I walked with the purposeful nature akin to those who crossed the west, possibly I was subconsciously succumbing to my exploratory nature. The bus had smelt of sweat, tasted of freedom, and allowed for the studying of those on their way. Way to where? Homes, lives, families, the loving arms of the husband, the soft eyes of a wife, the honest eyes of a brother. The bus ended short of my destination, 19km to hitch hike. After a kilometer of casual strolling outside of town, thumb signaling the passing car, I realized the length I may have to walk. 5km later, and with no cars rushing by, casting a breeze against the back of my neck, my thoughts left the pain which was creeping from my feet to my legs, and found themselves among the last few days.

The word hit my ear. Muscles contracted and moved plastic against the friction of wooden ramp. I launched into the air, eyes focused on the candy cane colored first gate. Turquoise was split by the red nose of my kayak as hips tightened holding the line, shoulders burned, and biceps propelled the fiberglass blades toward the goal. First gate, aim high, turn, watch the paddle. Move to the right, catch gate 2, move right, catch gate 3, hard boof, keep speed, second boof, sprint, next gates easy, be on line for the last gate, move hard left, get a stroke. I missed the stroke sliding the 15 feet sideways into the recirculating torrent below. I braced, holding the blade with practice precision away from the hole and toward the finish. With the last final sprint, my second lap of the Upper Palguin slalom race was over. Faster, cleaner, and with more focus.

My body was thrashed, the race laps on the Palguin had torn my muscles to exhaustion. I had to work. I stood behind the bar, the heat of stagnate summer air rushing into my senses. Handle pulled, perfect pour, dishes washed, dinner devoured, the clock struggled toward midnight. I slogged back to my apartment. In the morning, the beach beckoned a midday breakfast with a good friend, the afternoon held tired bones to couches, and the evening once again saw the quickened movements of work. I saw the faces of five people, tourists I guessed. They passed by me at the intervals of full bladders, each time with a noticing look from me, a questioning look from them. What question? How old I was I guessed. The smooth features of my face betrayed the look of one much younger than my eighteen years. That night I found myself with the familiarly bitter taste of beer burning my lips, refreshing my mind, my hand wandering toward the girl to my left. Hours swirled by, the morning saw my feet rushing toward the local bar. They did not carry me fast enough.

I awoke, my head swirling with the dehydrated pain of the nights vices. The great debate began. Should I stay in the confines of Pucon, or accept an invitation to my old home of Camp Puesco. Nostalgia won, swayed by the need for the faces of friends. I walked to the bus station, “Don’t want this to become a 19km mission into the night” I said, the words of unnoticed foreshadowing.

As the night fell, the delirious vocalizations on the border between singing and shouting, came tumbling form my mouth. My shirt had been cast aside an hour ago, allowing for the setting of the sun to cool my sweat. 3 hours and 30 minutes later I came limping into Puesco, the familiar panting of dogs met my ears. My friends were nowhere to be seen. My heart sank. An image of sitting alone in a cabin, hungry and exhausted formed in my mind. Just as I started to let my heart sink drowning my positive nature, the headlights of a mid 90’s van came swinging into the drive way, five kayaks perched on top of the rig. My friends emerged from the van, surprised looks were cast upon my comically attired figure. Morning came. The sun burst through the clear windows, allowing for a view of the castle spires of the mountain across the river. Soreness had not yet found itself among my bones, but a kayak found itself around my body a couple hours later. Friends, whitewater, and a familiar passion coursed through my blood, forcing a smile from my lips.  I stepped onto the bus that afternoon, the sun draining my energy, and smiled, full from the day. I had no way of know the violent storm of contrasting emotions and experience that would meet me that night.

The haze of Pucon

His beard, gray, stretching out, creeping down, grasping for his chest, matched an exterior which to Oregon would have been common, here, it was foreign. “I am a hippie” had come his heavily accented words to me before. Now he stared into my eyes, his breath a mix of foul liquor and yeast. I did not notice. “Every person I meet makes my life better. Look at all these people, these womans, they here for my wife, my best friend, her birthday, and it makes my heart cry. These people are made from love, these people are made to always be happy….and they are here for her. Do not forget, you may, that every person, these womans, will always make your life better.” His words were true, though sometimes hard to see as so. To the philosopher, to the man, to the boy, in me truth is far from true, and far from right, far from wrong as well. He was a baker, making his bread to better the bellies of the hungry, to feed the wanting, to sustain the man. His words always of wisdom, brought from the recesses of his smoke filled brain, his dream filled eyes, his contented heart. He wandered away into the crowd, foreigners from the adjoining country, friends in my eyes, and I in theirs. Where had my friends gone? I no longer saw the familiar figures of the kayakers I knew well. A phone call later I headed to the club, they had fled, three in the morning signaling a change of scene. I walked down the dirt road, the cold not meeting my flesh, I not noticing. A car sat idling in the middle of the street. I opened the door. The faces of those surprised but not caring stared back at me. In broken Spanish I conveyed the need to go to town with the combination of the willingness to pay.  While they declined my money, they were inclined to drive. After a drive of me jabbering in Spanish, inducing smiles on their faces, they dropped me two blocks from the club. I walked into the pumping of music, the cluster of people, the smell of sweat, intoxication, and ego, looking for a cute face. None were found, as I stumbled out of the club hours later as the lights switch on, the music off, and the crowd dispersed outside.

Swirling, with a light airy feeling in my head, smile plastered to my face, eyes showing the longevity of the night, I spun around. Staring up at me were two beautifully dark eyes, and a surprisingly welcoming smile. The face, one of an expression I wished to hold onto, smile stretching the reaches of my heart, caught my spinning brain and slowed it down.  Words from a tongue familiar to my ears materialized in my head. She spoke English. My smile spread wider, eyes glimmered. It was infectious, her smile, and it stole into my brain, locking the image there in nostalgic perfection. I did not know how I got here, how the conversation started, but I knew I did not want her words to cease. The noise of the others, waiting for taxis, clinging to railings, making out in the bushes, evaporated into the ancient night. Memories now are hazy, faded by the deprivation of closed eyelids, the consumption of local flavors, but her eyes stay. The face smiling up at me, eyes begging for more. More what? Details I want to remember have vanished, details that mean little to me stay. She took my phone, her hands moving rapidly adding the number and name. “Call me now!” she said as hands dragged her into the full taxi. I sprang into action, thumbs clumsily finding the number, “Llamar” pressed. Spanish words of disconnection hit my ears, causing my heart to sway from the buzz felt.

I was alone.

The crowd had left the outskirts of the club, my friends had disappeared, my hostal felt hours away. With directions received after a worried few dials of my phone, I started up the block.  Just around the street corner, my friends had waited. We wandered slowly to the beach, with the speed of those with no motivation for the morning. In the horizon, the blackness of night was met with the groaning and labored light of the coming day. The lake came into view. Clouds met the lapping waves, lightly crested with ivory, giving the water a familiarity of an ocean. Artificial lights cast a glow only seen in soccer stadiums. Overturned wooden boats awaited the languid morning of a Sunday. I lay down, half my body underneath a boat, the other sprawled out toward the lake, a stray dog curled up next to me, black coarse sand clung to my hair. My phone buzzed, a txt. My hand slid to my pocket. “You can call now” it said. I dialed. Her voice answered, and I said something that is now lost among the waves. “I will txt you later, but now I am going to try to sleep” I said before ending the call, my words seeming profound among the reassuring calling of the waves. I drifted in and out of the stranglehold of sleep as the others around me continued to talk, staring at the approaching of the sun. Oranges, pinks, and gray contrasted each other as heat warmed our backs, blue escaped from the clouds, and the next day began. I woke for the last time, and headed toward the city. I walked with one purpose, the purpose of sleep. I caught a collectivo to my hostel and laid in the bed, the room lit brilliantly from the clear skies. Sleep did not come. I forced myself out of bed, paid, and caught another collectivo into town. I ate. It was now four in the afternoon, the day had blown by, mixing with the night. Once again I caught the collectivo, headed to meet up with the rest of my group. I sat in the van, kayaks adorning the roof. Inside the weariness of those around me spread like a virus which would soon deprive the host of the functions of life. Where were we headed? An asado I was told. Where? Up it seemed, up toward where? The van crept up the last incline and swung into a large grassy field situated on a large mountain top, guarded by a well built gray house. On the grass, the view extended for miles, the green of pastures nestled against the imposition of mountains, shrouded by plump gray clouds. I laid down on a blanket, the smell of cooking meet drifting past my face. The feats of that night pressed on my eyelids, and the warmth of the sun relaxed my body. Sleep. The sun raced for the horizon, an hour had passed by. I woke, ate, and watched the sun. Yoga someone suggested. Led in Yoga, on top of a mountain, as the sun cast its dying glow across the valley, I could not help but smile. Another weekend in Pucon, another night of haze, another time for learning. The next day would wake me, the next few months will age me.

Life, and Thanksgiving

Eyes creaked open. The turquoise coloring was soon consumed by the ever dilating black. I rolled onto my side, the bed squealing with a noise of strained springs. Radiant, the light flooded through the large window, causing a sudden revolt from my eyes, for a moment it was black. The warmth of the sun coaxed them back open. Dust swirled in the rays of sun, each particle the lost cell from its host. What day is it? Who cares? Came the clashing of thoughts. The bathroom forced me from the familiarity of sheets. Exhausted, hands covering heavy lids, they lay in their beds, refusing to allow the day to wake them. I stumbled out of the cabin, pausing only to make sure the old wooden door does not creak too loudly. The grass glistened from dew left by clear blue skies, the swing set lay crooked, the result of abuse, the river rushed onward toward where? I did not know. I unloaded the van. It came back to me as I pulled trash, beer cans, and bananas from underneath the seats. Yesterday was Thanksgiving.

                “Hey I am Chris” came the unique raspy voice of a familiar face. A face I had seen before, but not in the ever less foreign Chile, but the increasingly so rivers of California. Chris, well build and with shorter hair than I remembered pulled the ipod from his ears, and methodically unzipped his paddle bag. “205” he said, handing the noticeably longer paddle to me. “I brought two, but then grabbed this one last second, didn’t know it was 205 (centimeters) so we will see how it goes.” Always forthcoming with paddling knowledge, always part of the team, always having advice, Chris emanated confidence, betrayed nothing. The Palguin had become routine. No drop made my blood race, no move unfamiliar, it had the feeling of a playground, and I was jumping off the swings.

Lean hard right, ride the pillow, hold, pull, paddle, lean hard right, hold, pull, land, the first drop cleaned with practiced precision. We paddle to the second drop, I let the blue kayak in front of me disappear before pulling the large red fiberglass blade into the boiling light blue water. Left to right. I reached the lip, below me I saw the bottom of the blue kayak. I refrained from my boof stroke, penciling underneath the boat rather than slamming the top. With violent jerks my boat kicked and flailed at the base of the drop. “Hold on” came reassuring thoughts to my limbs. The violence above me cease and I rolled to the surface, sucking in air. Third drop next. Easy boof, hard stomp. I landed slightly more right than preferred, but continued downstream. Next the crack drop, “the vagina drop” as referred to by most. Some shouldered boats, and snaked through the jungle and back to the river. My kayak slid to the lip, my paddle held above my head like harpoon searching for a whale. I rocketed down, tapping the edge of my boat along the side, sending me upside down into the pool below. A roll, a shake of the head, a smile. A portage, boogie water, rapids, boof to a swim. I was not feeling the fire. I could not see a clean line today. Attacked by large alien looking flies, slipping, straining and fighting through the bushes, I portaged. We loaded up the van, the others the truck, and drove away. Where? To Thanksgiving it seemed. “So many Gringos” the first thought to enter my brain as the van pulled into the mountain top quincho. Turkey, mashed potatoes, gravy, stuffing, beer, cheesy looking slop, some sort of interesting looking salad, cookies, pies, and a strange gelatin looking pie? the variety and quality overwhelmed my senses.  Seconds turned into thirds as our group sat like a clique in high school. At the picnic table, the volcano always announcing its presence with a visual display of authority, I gazed upon the mountain top clearing, where trees and grass, well-manicured, surrounded the quincho. Families started to leave as the sun fell away, casting a shadow upon the quincho. Inside, there was the shaking of dice and the slamming of cups, as a heated game of liar’s dice continued. I slammed my cup announced “bullshit” lost a dice, took a swig of a mostly pisco, pisco and coke (the price of losing), threw the dice back into the cup, shook, the dice bouncing off my palm, and with a noise we all had heard before, slammed it back down. 

It grew cold as I walked outside for a moment of peace. The night had grown old, aged by the illusion of time. An old man, came inside, ordering us in rapid Spanish to leave, the quincho was closed. We rode home, the van making uncomfortable noises as it sped up the hills toward Puesco. My eyes drifted closed, not to open again until the alarm of the sun. My dreams haunted by memories of what? Her voice defending what? The family around the table, laying out the facts, going over the relationship with statistic of emotions. The room layered in the slightest semblance of a dream. I sat hands folded in my lap, staring across at her parents, sister, her. Lips moving, but the words sliding past my face with the coldness of a slap, the torture of memories which I try to forget. With a jury like huddling of her parents they wait for me now. Eyes prompting my defense. I tell the truth. They huddle again. Glancing ever few seconds my way, their eyes seeing into my soul. Finally they rule, in my favor, and she storms out spitting venomous words toward me. I say I never wanted for this to happen. I say I wish it was different. I say lots of things. A shiver among the heat of the summer breaks my deep thought of the dream. I bask in the heat, skin hopefully turning the golden color which was part of my facade in the summer. I smile. Sleep doesn’t need to come often, I can hide from the closing of eyelids, but only once or twice a week. It will work itself out, I can tell. Memories fade as Spanish pours from my lips, and the tranquility of the Chilean lifestyle sets in.

The almost sad ending to a amazing journey

Light fell away. The world I knew grew to resemble death. The finality of life seemed to have formed the entrapping boulders which surrounded me. I opened my mouth gasping for the sweet nectar of life, but instead water filled my lungs. I sealed my mouth, hoping to contain what breath was still imprisoned in lungs. My knee braces flexed from the continual pressure of the water. One hand grasped the boulder to my right, the other fumbled for my spray deck. White froth clouded my vision, but I knew where I was. I assessed the situation. From what light stole into my turquoise eyes, I could see the bleakness of my situation. My boat threatened to succumb to the pressure, sliding underneath the boulder, dragging me with it. One thought settled warmly into my brain, making itself a home where it could watch the impending absence of life. I was going to die. The sieve I was in appeared to by my casket. My final resting place. I had a chance to live if I could get air. I had a chance if I could get the onslaught of water form my noise, my ears, my searing lungs. It seemed a cruel joke now, the entire run of the Nevados styled, and now, on the last drop to die? I was not scared. There was no panic in my movements. Just a realization. What would it be like? To slip under the boulder, to disappear forever? As a child I would always dream about one day packing a bag, and wandering into the woods with more conviction than Thoreau ever had. I would not dwell around a pond in the middle of a neighborhood, but instead make my name the same way as Jeremiah Johnson, Davey Crocket, and Daniel Boone. With gunpowder, determination, and the hunger for freedom. I doubted death would be like the daydreaming of my youth. Less than five seconds had passed in the illusion of time since I had fallen suddenly into the this cavern of destruction. The seconds had felt like years. I thought back to the days leading to this moment. The illusion of lost love, the hours of unnatural speed across oceans, the rain filled clouds swirling from the volcano, the tranquility of life, the realization of a dream. The boof above I timed, hit, and soared. The freedom, peace, focus, until the landing. Then to charge left. Not the line. I though it was the line. It did not seem right, but I had asked if it was so. Could he have possibly been talking about the small drop below? My spray deck popped. Suddenly my kayak stared to shift unpleasantly to the left. I stood up, liberating myself form the onslaught of water in my face. It shifted. Like the clamping of a bear trap upon an suspecting fox, the kayak pinned both my legs against he rock. I squirmed, twisted, ignoring the pain and pressure. I was able to turn one hundred and eighty degrees. I could now see the opening in the casket, the preverbal light and the end of the tunnel. The opening between two rocks. My legs, however, were too trapped to allow for an escape. It then occurred to me that even if I was able to be rescued, they would not be able to free me from the vice like grip of the kayak. I wanted to let the others know I was not dead, with two loud exaltations of help, my words seemed to disappear among the water. It shifted again, I leapt seizing the opportunity. My ankles came free and I landed outside the sieve. A throw bag landed in my hand and I gripped the rope. I was fine. I was alive. My helmet camera had recorded the entire 25 seconds. It does not seem like much time. 25 seconds. Inside of a sieve, fighting for life, it felt like a few years. My friends watched to video back at the cabin. It was the same as watching a car wreck, sickening, but oddly addicting. We stopped at an internet café in Curarrhue. I had a new message from my ex girlfriend. "I miss you" it said. I was unbelievably speechless. Those days before I left were horrible. Those days I had put past my mind. Those days I never wanted to repeat again. I could not say anything back. When I had needed her most, she was not there, and now it was over. I had moved on. I did not want to deal with this today. I did not want to deal with this ever. I wanted to forget the memories and enjoy the moment. Enjoy life. Enjoy Chile. I kayak. Kayaking is I. Never can I see a happy life without it. There are more creeks to be done, more  rivers to be navigated, and more runs to style.