Arnaud and I kayaked here in Belgium with a group of friends a few weeks ago. We wore our bathing suits and applied sunscreen and took a few beer-breaks along the way. We had such a fantastic time, and dominated so clearly in every way, that we decided to do it again last week while we were on vacation in the Pyrenees mountains in Spain.
Finding a kayak rental was easy enough in a little village we came across called Campo. When we signed up for the next day they asked us if we wanted a guide. We said something like, "Oh no, no -- we've got this." We then smiled and winked at each other. "More like, we DOMINATE," our little smiles and winks seemed to say.
We talked that night about whether we should bring our fly fishing gear or cameras with us. There were likely to be great fishing spots along the way -- and it is always painful for me to not have my camera. We decided to not worry about fly fishing gear, and to just bring along my 'cheap' camera.
The next day there were about 40 people present when we arrived 20 minutes late for our appointment - chaos was occurring. Wetsuits and helmets, lifejackets and special water shoes -- Norwegian-looking kids eating hamburgers and hairy men and ass-cracks everywhere. I looked at Arnaud at some point as we were sucked into the chaos and ourselves strapped into safety cocoons. "We are going to die," I mouthed to him from my newly helmeted face, these words pulling my helmet strap painfully. Fully suited up we waddled, my wetsuit much too large, following the giant group of people who seemed to know where they were going.
A man stopped us, "Kayaks, yes?" We confirmed that yes, we were kayaking. He gave us an enthusiastic thumbs-up, and said in a thick Spanish accent, "You are the only ones -- very good choice -- it is the best option." He then laughed, and walked away with the 37 other people, all of whom were rafting.
Arnaud and I stood alone, holding the wrong kind of paddles, as the huge group of families loaded onto a bus, laughing and still somehow eating hamburgers, myself again mouthing repeatedly, "We are going to die," until a woman began spraying our faces with freezing water from a hose, a great technique for distracting a person from impending death.
We asked the hose-woman if they had water-proof boxes for my camera, which had been sitting at the front desk. She looked confused and said, "No," but I was sure there was a language barrier. I retrieved my camera to communicate more clearly: we tried French, and then our very horrible Spanish accompanied by my pretty good miming. Her answer was always the same, "No. No," pointing to my camera. "No." Waterproof box-less, we waddled to the car, depositing and covering the camera in the hot interior.
We stood awkwardly for a few minutes, constantly in the way, until a man motioned us to follow him. "Come," he said. He was like a tiny, theatrical, high, Spanish Jesus. "I know English in England. England is around the boom boom in Texas! HAHA!" I laughed and responded, "Yes!" which is usually the right response. Our conversation continued like this for the next 15 minutes as we drove incredibly fast in a van on a mountain road.
The walk from the main road down to the river was quite long, and when we finally got to the water (our two person kayak was heavier than I expected) our guide proceeded to give us a pre-water lesson as I dripped with sweat and cursed my safety cocoon.
He showed us how to steer. "Duh," I thought.
He showed us how to row. "Double duh," I thought.
He told us to make sure we did not lose our paddles no matter what. "I wish I had my camera," I thought.
He showed us how to turn the kayak back to its right side if we flipped, one person handling the job by holding two specific areas. "We are not going to flip," I thought, paying attention now despite myself.
He showed us how to hold our bodies in the water if we found ourselves without the boat, in order to avoid injury from the rocks. "We are going to die," I thought.
I can go from arrogant denial to hopelessness in less than 3 seconds.
He told us that he would be there the whole time, showing us where to go and helping us along the way. "PLEASE DON'T EVER LEAVE US," I whisper-screamed.
The first time we flipped I lost my paddle immediately. I did not remember that I was in Spain or kayaking or married or that I had a family, I just wanted to not drown. That's it. Air, NOW. Once I found air and came back to reality I was horrified. "MY PADDLE!? OH MY GOD.... the BOAT... ARNAUD???" I banged my bones against the rocks a few times, having also forgotten the proper way to hold one's body while being smashed against giant rocks by urgent, surging water. We righted the boat, climbed aboard, and our guide retrieved my paddle. Off we went.
The second time we flipped I lost my paddle immediately. Again I remembered nothing: no language, no food preferences, no future dreams. Only: WHERE IS THE AIR. This time in my struggle to find air I found SEVERAL rocks, and the pain in my bones was substantial enough that I remembered one of the guide's lessons. If I had died at that moment, it would have been with proper body stance. I had proper body stance but couldn't find the strength to pull myself into the boat. My arms were bruised and I had hit my funny bones so hard on both elbows that my arms were temporarily useless.
This second flip was in the worst/best (strongest) area of the river, and the current was so strong that within a few seconds Arnaud and I were 50 feet from each other. When I was above water I managed to grab the boat, and then heard Arnaud yelling my name in fear, "CHARIS"... only with his French accent it sounded like, "CHAREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!"
I watched as he spun and surged and tumbled down the river, and I was touched for a moment that he was worried about me, his girl, in his moment of terror. And then I realized that he was in fact yelling FOR me. His yell was a cry for help, a request to be saved from a watery, bone-bashing death. He was fine (his ass and the bruise he maintained in that region would beg to differ), and eventually found a tree to grip hold of while I bobbled stiffly (paddleless and arm-strength-less) beside the kayak until our guide again saved us.
A few minutes after the second flip we reached calmer waters and drifted a bit, grateful for the break and thrilled by the adrenaline rush and freezing water and smashing of bones. In the silence I softly said, "CHAREEEEEEEEEEEEES!"
We laughed until we cried, and then a few more hundred times on the 15 hour drive back to Belgium. "CHAREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!"
It is hard to explain why I love this story so much. I completely love Arnaud's dramatic scream for my help. He was afraid, so he yelled for me. There is something so simple and honest about this moment -- something that I avoid so often and that Arnaud embodies so naturally.
I think the reality is that we save each other. I really do. I can learn the proper body stance and work out my biceps and learn some tricks of navigation and wear all the required safety gear, but when it really comes down to it I have never saved myself, ever.
"I am a strong woman," and the grand idea that I have done anything on my own or by myself is such horseshit: The boat flips over and I lose my paddle, every time.
I am a strong woman because of the people who have loved me and saved me and remembered me and taught me and stayed with me and chosen me and seen me and heard me and touched me and corrected me and yelled at me and yelled for me and laughed with me and cried with me and had a drink with me and pulled me onto the boat, yet again.
If there was a microphone inside my head it would screech with feedback due to the sound of me screaming the names of so many people I love and need in order to even pretend to function.
I am a very lucky lady to have so many names to scream.
Finding a kayak rental was easy enough in a little village we came across called Campo. When we signed up for the next day they asked us if we wanted a guide. We said something like, "Oh no, no -- we've got this." We then smiled and winked at each other. "More like, we DOMINATE," our little smiles and winks seemed to say.
We talked that night about whether we should bring our fly fishing gear or cameras with us. There were likely to be great fishing spots along the way -- and it is always painful for me to not have my camera. We decided to not worry about fly fishing gear, and to just bring along my 'cheap' camera.
The next day there were about 40 people present when we arrived 20 minutes late for our appointment - chaos was occurring. Wetsuits and helmets, lifejackets and special water shoes -- Norwegian-looking kids eating hamburgers and hairy men and ass-cracks everywhere. I looked at Arnaud at some point as we were sucked into the chaos and ourselves strapped into safety cocoons. "We are going to die," I mouthed to him from my newly helmeted face, these words pulling my helmet strap painfully. Fully suited up we waddled, my wetsuit much too large, following the giant group of people who seemed to know where they were going.
A man stopped us, "Kayaks, yes?" We confirmed that yes, we were kayaking. He gave us an enthusiastic thumbs-up, and said in a thick Spanish accent, "You are the only ones -- very good choice -- it is the best option." He then laughed, and walked away with the 37 other people, all of whom were rafting.
Arnaud and I stood alone, holding the wrong kind of paddles, as the huge group of families loaded onto a bus, laughing and still somehow eating hamburgers, myself again mouthing repeatedly, "We are going to die," until a woman began spraying our faces with freezing water from a hose, a great technique for distracting a person from impending death.
We asked the hose-woman if they had water-proof boxes for my camera, which had been sitting at the front desk. She looked confused and said, "No," but I was sure there was a language barrier. I retrieved my camera to communicate more clearly: we tried French, and then our very horrible Spanish accompanied by my pretty good miming. Her answer was always the same, "No. No," pointing to my camera. "No." Waterproof box-less, we waddled to the car, depositing and covering the camera in the hot interior.
We stood awkwardly for a few minutes, constantly in the way, until a man motioned us to follow him. "Come," he said. He was like a tiny, theatrical, high, Spanish Jesus. "I know English in England. England is around the boom boom in Texas! HAHA!" I laughed and responded, "Yes!" which is usually the right response. Our conversation continued like this for the next 15 minutes as we drove incredibly fast in a van on a mountain road.
The walk from the main road down to the river was quite long, and when we finally got to the water (our two person kayak was heavier than I expected) our guide proceeded to give us a pre-water lesson as I dripped with sweat and cursed my safety cocoon.
He showed us how to steer. "Duh," I thought.
He showed us how to row. "Double duh," I thought.
He told us to make sure we did not lose our paddles no matter what. "I wish I had my camera," I thought.
He showed us how to turn the kayak back to its right side if we flipped, one person handling the job by holding two specific areas. "We are not going to flip," I thought, paying attention now despite myself.
He showed us how to hold our bodies in the water if we found ourselves without the boat, in order to avoid injury from the rocks. "We are going to die," I thought.
I can go from arrogant denial to hopelessness in less than 3 seconds.
He told us that he would be there the whole time, showing us where to go and helping us along the way. "PLEASE DON'T EVER LEAVE US," I whisper-screamed.
The first time we flipped I lost my paddle immediately. I did not remember that I was in Spain or kayaking or married or that I had a family, I just wanted to not drown. That's it. Air, NOW. Once I found air and came back to reality I was horrified. "MY PADDLE!? OH MY GOD.... the BOAT... ARNAUD???" I banged my bones against the rocks a few times, having also forgotten the proper way to hold one's body while being smashed against giant rocks by urgent, surging water. We righted the boat, climbed aboard, and our guide retrieved my paddle. Off we went.
The second time we flipped I lost my paddle immediately. Again I remembered nothing: no language, no food preferences, no future dreams. Only: WHERE IS THE AIR. This time in my struggle to find air I found SEVERAL rocks, and the pain in my bones was substantial enough that I remembered one of the guide's lessons. If I had died at that moment, it would have been with proper body stance. I had proper body stance but couldn't find the strength to pull myself into the boat. My arms were bruised and I had hit my funny bones so hard on both elbows that my arms were temporarily useless.
This second flip was in the worst/best (strongest) area of the river, and the current was so strong that within a few seconds Arnaud and I were 50 feet from each other. When I was above water I managed to grab the boat, and then heard Arnaud yelling my name in fear, "CHARIS"... only with his French accent it sounded like, "CHAREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!"
I watched as he spun and surged and tumbled down the river, and I was touched for a moment that he was worried about me, his girl, in his moment of terror. And then I realized that he was in fact yelling FOR me. His yell was a cry for help, a request to be saved from a watery, bone-bashing death. He was fine (his ass and the bruise he maintained in that region would beg to differ), and eventually found a tree to grip hold of while I bobbled stiffly (paddleless and arm-strength-less) beside the kayak until our guide again saved us.
A few minutes after the second flip we reached calmer waters and drifted a bit, grateful for the break and thrilled by the adrenaline rush and freezing water and smashing of bones. In the silence I softly said, "CHAREEEEEEEEEEEEES!"
We laughed until we cried, and then a few more hundred times on the 15 hour drive back to Belgium. "CHAREEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEES!"
It is hard to explain why I love this story so much. I completely love Arnaud's dramatic scream for my help. He was afraid, so he yelled for me. There is something so simple and honest about this moment -- something that I avoid so often and that Arnaud embodies so naturally.
I think the reality is that we save each other. I really do. I can learn the proper body stance and work out my biceps and learn some tricks of navigation and wear all the required safety gear, but when it really comes down to it I have never saved myself, ever.
"I am a strong woman," and the grand idea that I have done anything on my own or by myself is such horseshit: The boat flips over and I lose my paddle, every time.
I am a strong woman because of the people who have loved me and saved me and remembered me and taught me and stayed with me and chosen me and seen me and heard me and touched me and corrected me and yelled at me and yelled for me and laughed with me and cried with me and had a drink with me and pulled me onto the boat, yet again.
If there was a microphone inside my head it would screech with feedback due to the sound of me screaming the names of so many people I love and need in order to even pretend to function.
I am a very lucky lady to have so many names to scream.
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