elder999, Halfway to “What Comes Next.”

[elder999]

So, I'm off to kayak the Taos box today-you'll know why in a bit. I actually posted this once somewhere else, about 5 years ago. So, I'll quote it in its entirety, except for changing the number of years that have passed.

Things that I didn 't post? That my then 7 year old daughter-the one some people say is maybe psychic-was red in the face crying and pleading with us not to go that morning-actually trying to physically restrain her mother telling her to stay home, and that I told her-promised-that nothing would hapen to her mother, and that we'd be home.That I've never been able to tell her she was right, or that I was wrong for making a promise I couldn't keep. That's why we're not that close.....


So, life lessons? Listen to that little voice that tells you something, even if it's coming from a 7 year old girl. Don't make promises that you can't keep.There are some regrets that you'll never let go of or maybe do anything about. And that if love would die along with death, this life wouldn't be so hard....

We were Gods.

We thumped our chests. We swilled Rolling Rock and Genesee Cream Ale along the river’s banks as we danced barefoot by the blaze of a contraband bonfire, and when we felt the urge we dragged our women by the hand if not the hair,( though the sentiment was the same), off alone into the brush.

We were modern-day Norse gods, so we wore the stupid horned helmets.

During college, my friends and I spent some of our weekends sailing the Long Island sound and the ocean, or floating in the eddies of the Hudson and Delaware River, diving into the deep pools off secret rock ledges and drinking enough beer to make the rivers seem undefined as only a non-lethal combination of drugs, booze and flowing water can.

We camped along its banks and shuttled different groups of vivacious coeds out for fun and frolicking, but years later-or, rather, 17 years ago- when we were married with kids and families and jobs, we wanted something more. We wanted to conquer the river-take part in a rafting race and win.

It was actually my friend Keith’s idea, but when Lisa proclaimed it our goal, we all took up the task.

Lisa was, after all, our queen-and my wife…my first wife.

Now, coming from a long line of sailors, I’d been raised to respect-even revere- the water: my dad always told me two things, one about no longer being at the top of the food chain once you entered the water, and the other about how it all deserves the same respect as the sea: ponds, rivers, lakes, all of it, ‘cause it’s all the sea, you know, and so the river, like the sea is everywhere.

My wife, though…..

Lisa was president of her own company, had raced Lasers like me, and was a very strong swimmer-like me. She was always quick with some acidic, smart-aleck comment, and the kind of gal that felt free enough to squat naked over the side of a boat—male presence be damned — with her hands on her hips and her butt jutting out over the water. And then, as if she were mistress of everything she surveyed, she’d piss in the water. While she didn’t lack respect for me or my family’s traditions, she certainly wasn’t one to follow them. She also, though some may think it from what I've written, didn't lack respect for herself. She was....special, and could get all of us riled up with an idea, whether it was a party, or charity work or a trip to the Caribbean .

So when the time came, bellies filled with beer, we took our seats in the raft provided for the contest, and we shoved off into the heart of the current.
The course and the contest were straightforward. It was a timed race through three sets of rapids, and everyone had to remain in the raft. It was that simple.

The first two sets of rapids were cake. We managed to find a good line and were out before we even felt the spray. But, like many things in life, just when we thought we were golden everything turned to crap. Crap in our world too.

The final gauntlet started out with a steep drop turning fast into pounding hurdles so high you floated off your seat. Even then, however, it wasn’t particularly hard, and we managed to find a sweet spot, but then something strange happened. No matter how strong we paddled the raft spun sideways and out of sync with the river.

It was the damned weirdest thing, and I remember hearing Lisa shout something smart to the rest of us just before, in the chaos of a spin, she disappeared.

One minute she was sitting at the lead and the next her seat was filled with silt.

And just as fast as she was gone the raft swung around straight and finished its shot out of the whitewater and into a calm.

It was then I realized no one else had seen her go over the side, and I started to look around. What I saw froze me sober and made me scream.

There, still in the rapid, stuck straight up and running in place were Lisa’s legs. The rest of her was trapped upside down in the water.

As we sped away in the current, we could see her legs flapping around and we knew, like you know tomorrow’s hangover is gonna be hell, that she was trying to break away from death.

Of course it didn’t take but a second for the rescue teams watching on the banks to paddle into the rapids to save her, and we pushed for the shore to watch, but it seemed the river wouldn’t let her go. Every time a rescuer passed close, he just couldn’t line up in the section where Lisa struggled.

Lisa’s legs continued to wave back and forth for a few more seconds — or maybe it was ten years — until I realized it wasn’t her doing the moving but the water rushing past. Eventually, however, the cold of the river stiffened them so they almost stood straight up, like someone giving us some sort of obscene peace sign.

We watched on the sidelines like everyone else while the rescue changed into a recovery. We listened to my sobs, and the sobs of the women, some of them wives, and some of them former coeds we had brought to the river over the years, and we all held our breath as the rescuers finally released her from the rocks to be scooped up by a raft downstream.

After Lisa’s death no one went back to the river, as if everything it touched was somehow unclean, and eventually our friendships evaporated like water on a hot iron skillet.

Everyone moved on and maybe they even forgot. Everyone except for me that is. I may have moved, but the river, like the sea-is everywhere, and here I am, away from the rapids of the Delaware , and the eddies of the Hudson , far from any ocean and all too near the rapids of the Rio Grande .

You see, I know what really happened that day. I saw the whole thing.

I had just turned to hear Lisa shout something like, "We’re gods," when the wave struck, but instead of knocking her over the side, the water seemed to flow around her and then, securing a grip over her neck and head, it sucked her forward off the raft and into the rapids.

It was goddam unnatural.

And sometimes at night, when I’m just about to fall asleep with the comfort of a shot or two of tequila tingling in my brain, I can still see her eyes, wide open with understanding and terror, pleading for help a second before she was pulled under.

Then the river swallows her up, and I cry.

So every now and then I still go down to the water with my kayak, and shoot the rapids, and build a fire and dance like the gods we were. I thump my chest and shout out my anger, and then I drop my pants and piss at the rapids, but my urine always pools on the surface, as if the river were ice.