The warm evening air cooled as it met the surface of the river, the rings made by the fish rising barely disturbing the water as the sun started to slip beneath the horizon. The three young men stood on the bank looking at the current flowing by. Two were slightly bored, one happy. “No problem here ” said Clive “Straight forward until you get to that point down there. “Where” I asked already feeling the fear begin to well up inside of me. “Just a dink left then right, keep your canoe steady and you are through” said Chris leaning back on the tree, relaxed and as usual eloquent and clear.
Here we were a free day tomorrow, no work at the outdoor pursuits centre, so the three of us off canoeing together. Clive, Chief Instructor, strong muscular, losing hair on top already. A diamond shaped body, all shoulders, slips away in the bottom half, just as well or he wouldn’t fit into that sleek canoe of his. Chris, Assistant Chief Instructor, large afro hair spilling over his shoulders, London accent, down to earth, very capable. And of course me, how did I end up teaching outdoor pursuits, who knows. I loved climbing myself and caving, but had an ambivalence to canoeing, well probably water in general. Not much of a swimmer, can survive I think, I hope. We climb back into the rusty van. I’m thinking I can handle this, only one tricky bit on the route we’ve chosen, and I’m guessing their thinking, not much excitement here, routine practice drill. Oh well. I settle back on the grubby plastic seat as Chris drives us to the pub as the rain begins to spatter on the windscreen.
The driving rain wakes me up, its already seeping through the rotten window, pooling on the shelf. I move my three books to a safer spot and look out. Yesterdays beautiful day is a memory as the rain shoots up the valley and batters into the house. Huge puddles have already forming in the field and the vehicles in the car park have a running stream through the middle. I relax, breath, make a deep sigh and pull the bedclothes over my head. I know it’s off, too much rain. As I relax, just thinking about chapter of the new novel bought in Swansea last week, they both bang on the door together. A triumphant wallop which rattles the already loose door. “Come on let’s go, its looking great out there”. Can’t I just duck out, I think, let them have their moment. But it doesn’t work like that here, we test ourselves, train ourselves, even on days off. So an hour later we’re loading canoes up onto the roof of the bus, the rain sliding down my forearms and running right down to my shoulders before soaking into my shirt.
Brian’s here now, our chef and sort of centre organiser. He’s a good cook but also has cook mood swings. Last week he spent over the budget on some new plants to put around the centre. For twenty four hours we admired our new greenery, then someone left the door open and in came the two goats. They ate each plant down to a stork, then made their way into the office and ate all the papers on the notice board, leaving a tide line of ragged paper where they could just reach. Brian hit a rage, at the goats, at us for someone leaving the door open and went on the booze for twenty four hours. We’re family so its fine and there’s no group in, so we cobble meals together for a day or so.
Brian’s our driver for the day, he’s on a high. Well he would be, all he’s doing is driving. He’s in the van now, while we struggle with tying notes in the rain. We climb aboard, the rain thunders on the roof, there’s one fine singing chef, two smiling Chris and Clive cheshire cats rubbing at windows and pointing out changes the rain is making to the landscape and me, crumbled down in the plastic seat feeling sorry for myself.
It’s no better after half an hour when we arrive at the drop off point. Except what is different is the river. It’s gone from a clear, slow moving, gentle gliding pool to a raging, brown, frothy, rushing malestream. The chef looks frightened, I am frightened and Clive and Chris’s eyes light up. “Let’s go” they shout and almost fall out of the doors in their hurry to be on the water. My heart is beating, breathe I say to myself, it’s only water, you’re with the two best canoeists you know, it’ll be fine. I push myself off my safe plastic seat, squeeze Brian’s shoulder, he gives me the thumbs up and I’m out in the rain.
On the river we go, its moving fast. We know the drill though and Clive’s shouting through the rain “usual stuff, follow me, Chris bring up the rear”. We’re swept along, touching paddles in the water to maintain direction. I’m wondering how long it would take to get us down to the estuary at this speed. We’re only doing two miles though, so it’ll be a quick trip at this rate. I see Brian speeding along the road, the van flashing occasionally through the trees, he’s getting ahead to the pull out point. I’m okay, I might even be enjoying myself, the slap of the paddles on the water, watching the occasional log outpace us, a wave to the morose heron perched on the stump.
We sweep round the corner heading to the only difficult bit. Where is it? We see only waves, big waves, the dink right dink left has disappeared, there is no dink at all. I hear Clive mutter ahead of me, then turn his head and shout “paddle, paddle, paddle like fuck”. I do, we all do, the blades drive into the water, we’re pacing into the waves now, no way back, already the waves are building. Bang as the boats rise on the up, bang on the waves as we crash on the down side. My arms are aching already, I glance to my left, Chris is hit by a rogue wave and he’s over. Roll Chris roll, can he do it in this water, he’s a master at it normally. I look ahead, where’s Clive, he’s over too, I see his canoe upside down, the end of his blade swishing out of the water as he fights to get upright. “Fuck, Fuck, paddle, paddle, fuck, fuck, paddle, paddle” I shout as I hit the now defunct double dink. Up the wave, there’s no top it must be 10 feet tall, down “paddle, paddle, fuck fuck”. The nose of the canoe dives into the water, my shoulders heave, the muscles screaming as I haul forward through the next wave. Water everywhere, can’t see, it’s brown it’s in my mouth, poring over me. The paddle stops working, there’s no air to lift in, I try anyway. Then I’m out, still swirling my paddle like crazy, still shouting my mantra “paddle, paddle, fuck, fuck”.
I hear the cheering before I see him. Brian is up on the swing bridge ahead, right in the middle, leaning over whooping “that a boy, yea man, whoo, whoo, whoo” . I want to raise my hand, do a clenged fist or something, but my hands are clamped to the grips on the paddle, white, my knuckles locked in place. I sweep down towards him, he’s hopping on one foot doing a jig still whooping and clapping and then I’m under the bridge and gone “cool he shouts, “cool”
Clive found me fifteen minutes later, my arms wrapped around a tree at the side of the river. He was white, I was white, I was shaking, everything shaking, wanting to be sick, wanting out of the boat. “I thought you’d drowned” he said quietly as Chris swept in behind him, doing a smart stop at the river bank. I shook my head, hugged my tree and smiled, we all smiled.