Full fathom five [draft/notes/highlights]
The phone rings and D says "hey we're out here, and we're having problems with the barbeque. I think we need a straight man to make it work." I have a lot of things to get done, but part of the difficulty is having to figure out which. So, bringing a limited number of things that I can do is a good thing, as it will allow me
to focus. That's the idea.
The filthy lying internet gives me drive time of about two hours, but traffic ends up about doubling that, much of it moving about fifteen mph. I don't think I'd make that drive again if waiting for me was ice-cream, blow-jobs and kittens. OK, maybe kittens.
By the time I get there, the secret of fire has been mastered. Introductions go round, and everyone I don't know yet seems cool. Much food is eaten, and much wine is consumed. Someone mentions that the house down the street is owned by Matthew Barney. It is decided that we should TP his house. This plan is abandoned when we realize that 1) we don't have enough TP to do it properly, 2) the nearest store is about six miles away and 3) none of us is in any condition to operate a motor vehicle. The Plan is brought up again a couple of times over the next few days, but every time someone remembers, the same three conditions apply.
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In the morning we go out to the beach, and when we get there I realize that I've left my sunscreen back at the house. I have to go back and make a call at noon, though, so I think, "oh, how badly can I get burned in two hours." The answer is "rather a lot, really." By late afternoon, my back is radiating heat and my legs look like I'm wearing red chaps. I get some aloe, and resist the urge to just pour it out on the lawn and roll around in it.
D & C want to go jump off the dock, and pull me along. I'm not a real big swimmer, but the water is going to be cool, so I put sunscreen on with a trowel, and meet them out there. I haven't really gone swimming in, like twenty years, but I kind of remember the basics. I'm a bit hesitant, but it can't be any worse than water training, where I had twenty-odd pounds of wet nylon on my back. Plus, they give me immense amounts of shit until I leap in. I'm as worried about the impact on my legs as anything else. But it isn't bad at all. I flop around a bit, until my body starts to remember, the lean back and float, letting the waves carry me.
Later that night we're eating popcorn & talking about, among other things, our various fears. When it comes round to me I offer "uh, drowning, actually." They get horrified looks on their faces and apologize hugely for cajoling me in, but I tell them it's ok. Sometimes it's good to do things that irrationally scare the shit out of you.
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It's dark out here. It never really gets dark in or around a city. One can forget what a dark night really is. I get to remember the beauty of a sky full of stars.
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I'm staying in the shack/bungalow out back, which has no hot water so in the morning I go into the house to scrape steel across my face, and run into C, who is an early riser.
"Good morning! Did you sleep well?" She's a Cheery Early Riser.
"Yeah, like a rock. 'could go for some coffee now, though."
"Just do a handstand."
"Beg pardon?"
"Yoga. Just do a handstand. It'll wake you up. I can teach you."
"Yeah, ok." I'm very impressionable when I haven't had coffee.
She shows me how. I do it. Since she's a yoga instructor, she tries to correct my body position, which means putting her fingers between my shoulders. Along the burn. At which point my handstand kind of becomes a nosestand. I have to say it did wake me up.
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There's a sandbar about a mile off shore, which is also a bird sanctuary. People are allowed there, as long as you steer clear of the nests. There are a couple of kayaks at the house, so we carry them out to the dock and head off. The beaches aren't sand. They're rocks, broken seashells and the remains of crabs. But it looks nice. The day is beautiful. I take the smaller of the kayaks, and D & C squeeze into the larger. I take some water and a couple of notebooks in my pack with me to sit and look over the Atlantic and write. We walk along the beach, with them gathering pretty rocks.
When its time to go back, the current has gotten stronger. I steady the kayak for D & C steady while they get in and start heading out. When I get mine off the beach I look out and see that they are way the hell out there, but I'm not walking back, so I get in mine to follow them.
Along with the current the waves have come up. I can turn into them, and ride down the trough, which is actually pretty cool. Then, someone in a Miami penismobile went blasting by, a ways off, but still enough to kick up a pretty good wake, perpendicular to the waves. This means that I can't turn into both of them, and that is when things got, as I say, a little more exciting than I needed them to be, and a wave rolled me right over.
First thought -- "Huh, the water isn't swamping my contacts out. Cool."
My pack has a lot of padding, so it actually is pretty buoyant, and it is floating. Anything in the pockets, however, has gone right out, and that is why there aren't many photos to accompany this, my camera (and tripod) being down in the ocean, the ocean so blue.
I use the paddle to hook my pack and get back to the kayak. I manage to roll it over, and pull myself back into it. Then another wave hits me broadside, and I go back into the water.
I'm a little frustrated. I crawl onto the back of the kayak and catch my breath. Looking around for D & C and see that the current has carried them even further out. Turning my body to get a better view puts me off balance, so I go right back into the drink.
I'm not past the sandbar yet, so I start trying to drag the kayak back to it, but I'm staying in place against the current. Since that means that if I didn't have the drag of the kayak, I'd be moving forward, I'm thinking about ditching it and just swimming back to the shore. But it is a ways out and I'm getting a little tired. The kayak is going to float. If I stay with it, even if I can't keep it righted I can get my arms through the bungees on it and keep my head above water indefinitely. Then it occurs to me that this just means that after I die from dehydration in the Atlantic it will make it easy for the seagulls to peck out my eyes. Which is not as comforting as you might think. "Should I Stay or Should I Go" starts running through my head.
Then a terribly nice Austrian gentleman brings his power boat into view.
"Are you ok?"
"Uh, well, all things considered..."
"do you need a life jacket?"
"I'm ok with floating, but if you could toss me that rope thats trailing off your bow, that would be aces."
I manage to get into his boat, and we muscle the kayak into it.
I'm looking around.
"Where did your friends go?"
That's a really good question.
Out a ways, what seemed to be halfway towards England, but in retrospect was probably closer to a mile, we see another powered boat with the slight sliver of red on it that indicates that someone has dragged a kayak aboard it. The boats close and I see that D & C are as soaked as I am.
When our rescuers get us back to the dock I get their story. After a brief "stay calm," "I AM CALM! YOU STAY CALM!" discussion, they realized that they couldn't beat the current, and signaled for help. The other boat had gotten to them and tossed them a rope, but then tension of the rope had been just enough to roll them over. Apparently, when making the snap decision of what to grab when they went in, C opted to try to save the bag full of rocks, which might not have been the best idea. Having lost her other stuff, some of which she'd been carrying around for years, she chose to take it as a lesson in attachment, and letting go.
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That evening C says that she wants to go back to the dock and jump in. "I want
to get past any lingering fear of the water and reconnect with the ocean."
"You do that," I say. "I'm going to sit here and overcome any lingering fear of beer. And reconnect with...this beer."
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The odd thing is, it was actually a really good weekend. The right company makes all the difference. And I got a pretty rock.