another hour. I enviously eyed Colin’s sleeping form as I rummaged for my windbreaker, pants, baseball cap, and cycling gloves. I ate a handful of crackers before reluctantly crawling out of the cabin. A shrill wind whipped through the cables while the waves slurped and gurgled like a hungry monster. I gripped the safety line as I moved about the deck to unfasten the oars. The open-cell foam rubber padding on the rowing seat had absorbed water like a sponge. As it compressed under my weight, water squirted out, soaking my pants. The shoes, too, were wet and cold, and I cringed as I slid my bare, blistered feet into them. There was no point in wearing socks, as they would be soaked in minutes. I leaned back, gripped the oar handles, and slid them outboard until the collar hit the oarlock with a satisfying thunk.
I wrestled with the oars, slowly pointed the bow southeast, and fell into the rhythm of the row. Exertion pumped heat into my body and cleared the dread that had set in with the night. My monochrome world gradually transformed, and a pink glow hinted at the coming sun. I watched, mesmerized, as the sun slowly rose, alighting the clouds and casting a lone beam of light across the sea.
Colin slept soundly in the cabin, wrapped up in the blankets, with the hatch firmly shut. His long blond hair poked out from beneath the blankets, but that was the only part of him I could see. I loved watching Colin sleep. Even though I couldn’t see his face, I imagined his relaxed face, his partially open mouth and deep breaths, his chest gently rising and lowering. I don’t know why, but it made me think about how much I loved him.
Before leaving, I had been filled with worry about what this journey would do to our relationship. Some of my friends’ relationships have disintegrated on vacation. When I told my father my plans, he said, “Don’t do it. You will never get married if you go on this expedition together. Stay home and wait for him.”
Colin and I first met three years before, when we both lived in Vancouver. On a drizzly Friday night in September, I was bored and half-heartedly perused the guide from our local second-run cinema. The show that night read, “Special Event. Raft the Amazon with Colin Angus—tickets $ 10 (advance)/$ 12 (door). Show: 8 : 00 PM .” I looked at my watch; it was 7 : 40 PM . I had never heard of Colin Angus, but it sounded more fun than sitting at home.
I arrived just as the show was beginning and took a spot near the front of the Ridge Theatre’s seven hundred seats. The theatre was full and my prime real estate was courtesy of being a party of one. The lights dimmed and a young guy stepped on stage. He must be the introducer, I thought.
“Thank you for coming out tonight. My name is Colin Angus . . . ”
I was surprised. He seemed too young . . . and too small. When I thought of adventurers, I pictured Grizzly Adams or maybe Indiana Jones. At least he (or she) had to have wrinkles and look capable of fighting off a grizzly bear, barehanded at that.
As Colin’s tale unfolded, I became entranced, and not only by his descriptions of the Amazon Basin. When Colin was eleven years old, he decided to sail around the world. He was inspired by a library book— Dove —written by a young man, Robin Lee Graham, who did just that as a teenager. But Colin lived in a blue-collar mill town in British Columbia, with a single working mom who was raising four kids; there was little to drive his dream except his own will. At fifteen he bought a small sailboat with his paper-route earnings, and four years later he bought a slightly larger boat with his tree-planting money. When he left Vancouver Island in his decrepit boat, almost everyone thought he was foolish, stupid, or both. People told him he would die, and when that didn’t dissuade him, they told his mother he was suicidal. The mantra “ 100 per cent demise, guaranteed” played in the minds of his farewell party. Colin spent five years
I wrestled with the oars, slowly pointed the bow southeast, and fell into the rhythm of the row. Exertion pumped heat into my body and cleared the dread that had set in with the night. My monochrome world gradually transformed, and a pink glow hinted at the coming sun. I watched, mesmerized, as the sun slowly rose, alighting the clouds and casting a lone beam of light across the sea.
Colin slept soundly in the cabin, wrapped up in the blankets, with the hatch firmly shut. His long blond hair poked out from beneath the blankets, but that was the only part of him I could see. I loved watching Colin sleep. Even though I couldn’t see his face, I imagined his relaxed face, his partially open mouth and deep breaths, his chest gently rising and lowering. I don’t know why, but it made me think about how much I loved him.
Before leaving, I had been filled with worry about what this journey would do to our relationship. Some of my friends’ relationships have disintegrated on vacation. When I told my father my plans, he said, “Don’t do it. You will never get married if you go on this expedition together. Stay home and wait for him.”
Colin and I first met three years before, when we both lived in Vancouver. On a drizzly Friday night in September, I was bored and half-heartedly perused the guide from our local second-run cinema. The show that night read, “Special Event. Raft the Amazon with Colin Angus—tickets $ 10 (advance)/$ 12 (door). Show: 8 : 00 PM .” I looked at my watch; it was 7 : 40 PM . I had never heard of Colin Angus, but it sounded more fun than sitting at home.
I arrived just as the show was beginning and took a spot near the front of the Ridge Theatre’s seven hundred seats. The theatre was full and my prime real estate was courtesy of being a party of one. The lights dimmed and a young guy stepped on stage. He must be the introducer, I thought.
“Thank you for coming out tonight. My name is Colin Angus . . . ”
I was surprised. He seemed too young . . . and too small. When I thought of adventurers, I pictured Grizzly Adams or maybe Indiana Jones. At least he (or she) had to have wrinkles and look capable of fighting off a grizzly bear, barehanded at that.
As Colin’s tale unfolded, I became entranced, and not only by his descriptions of the Amazon Basin. When Colin was eleven years old, he decided to sail around the world. He was inspired by a library book— Dove —written by a young man, Robin Lee Graham, who did just that as a teenager. But Colin lived in a blue-collar mill town in British Columbia, with a single working mom who was raising four kids; there was little to drive his dream except his own will. At fifteen he bought a small sailboat with his paper-route earnings, and four years later he bought a slightly larger boat with his tree-planting money. When he left Vancouver Island in his decrepit boat, almost everyone thought he was foolish, stupid, or both. People told him he would die, and when that didn’t dissuade him, they told his mother he was suicidal. The mantra “ 100 per cent demise, guaranteed” played in the minds of his farewell party. Colin spent five years
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