Prelude to Absence

Eyes cast the gray carpet above me in a familiar light. The charcoal seeming water swirled color faded by the absence of sun. Riparian smells filled nostrils, shocking brain cells into recognition. Faint whispers of voices carried across the still river air. Rubber soles pressed against the gravel path winding toward the river, feeling more like a front door to home than a path. The absent piece of trash lay forgotten among the sand colored grass. Orange, gray, brown overtaking green in a sea of changing seasons clinging to the sand and rock shivered in the slight breeze cast up from the turbulence of water.  Lungs relaxed in a sigh, muscles lengthened, skin hung from restful bones. A smile parted bitter lips, furrowed brow, stiff cheeks, as knees slid into the plastic straightjacket. Callused hands gripped cold fiberglass, waiting for resistance...
I had been in this scene before, this place never changing, just the man who sees it. I had swam here, become bored here, laughed here, raced here, been alone here, grown up here. A year ago I had mentioned plans to leave this place, travel 180 degrees to the South and explore the rivers of Chile. Their eyes had cast doubt, their words encouraged. Some thought it was wishful thinking, some thought it was a boy's dream, but I knew it was where I would be. The Summer had been spent among the sand and heat of Idaho. Lifting, talking, placating, waiting. It was the first time I had been away from my girlfriend of almost a year. It was the first time I had left home for more than a week. It was the first time I understood who I could be, and who I should be. Upon my return back form Idaho, I counted my money, stared at my plane ticket, and waited. Kayaking kept me busy a few days of the week, the rest of my time spent thinking. Philosophy dominated my thoughts. The countdown to Chile started. Now here once again, lapping a rapid I had done since I was 16, I felt at home. Never before have I felt at home anywhere. No place has ever felt welcoming, except the river. I knew every eddy line, boil, swirl, hole, wave, branch, speed, and temperature of this rapid, yet still managed to learn something new. My friends disappearing over the same horizons, making the same moves, trying the same new lines, invited a sense of practice that was hard to shake. Practice used among the drops and waves of consequential rapids.  I would either be here for a couple laps, or ten, I did not know. The mood of the river constantly affecting mine, my problems affecting its. Abs released, plastic grinded against rock, muscles moved in a pleasing way, mouth closed to the splash, life ceased, living began.