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.