Saturday's Storyteller: "The water is nice this time of year."
by Belinda Roddie
The water is nice this time of year, so say my uncles and aunts as they lift kayaks over their heads and work together to strap them to their large vans and SUVs. They say it's a shame that I won't partake in their aqua antics. I simply smile and nod and wave goodbye as they disappear into the dust that the dirt and loose gravel has kicked up.
Every time my extended family goes to the Wafer Cabin in Sueñotardes, it is always the same deal. Mom and Dad go blackberry picking along the nearby creek while our eleven-year-old retriever Toby waddles after them, still trying to act like a puppy. My uncles and aunts do their kayaking, and the cousins accompany them with canoes. My brother builds yet another dam on the nearby bank that we call "Trouble's Bath," using an array of large rocks and branches to hinder the current. And I, as usual, curl up on one of the wooden chairs propped outside by the round table, reading a book or doing a crossword that I've just picked up from the Sueñotardes General Store.
As everyone in my family knows, I am viciously hydrophobic. I have never learned to swim, nor have I harbored an interest in doing so since my floaty wings failed at the YMCA pool and I nearly drowned at the tender age of three and a half. My mother has not pushed for me to try to overcome my fear. Neither has my dad, though he sometimes teases me when I have extreme difficulty even taking a shower. My brother, for years, has kept his music turned down and his ears perked every time I have had to wash myself, just in case I have a panic attack in the middle of shampooing my admittedly very short hair. It's always been the norm.
Of course, this summer, things are changing. We are at the Wafer Cabin to celebrate my brother's recent high school graduation, meaning he will be thousands of miles away at university while I'm stuck finding a new way to feel comfortable around water. Obviously, I can drink it and wash my hands with it and even take baths in it (as long as the water doesn't touch my chin when I lower myself into the tub), but this year in particular seems to be the year in which my aunts and uncles want to coerce me into magically overpowering a phobia that I've carried on my back for over twelve years.
I don't blame them. Still, it's good to find some time away from them. Of course, the week progresses naturally weather-wise for some time. Before the unprecedented rain, that is.
***
On the radio, we hear that the impending storm will be hitting us at around nine o'clock in the evening. This is, of course, after Toby has been let outside to pee. And I, unremarkably, am sent out to find him.
I see my dog lapping up dirty creek water just as the first drizzle begins. I bite my lip aggressively. I am half-ready to run back inside and convince my brother to cross the creek to get the dog. As it is, however, there's a fairly decent-sized log that serves as a bridge across the water, so I shakily step onto that makeshift platform and trudge toward the thirty canine.
Toby seems to have no idea what amount of stress he is putting me through, which is no surprise given that dogs don't exactly consider their owners' feelings. Still, as I make it across the creek and clamp my hand down on his dusty blue collar, I think I can see a half-melted apology baking behind his brown eyes. I'm not sure what my dog must feel so bad about until I feel the first solid drop of water break across my exposed neck.
The rain following that is utter Hell. It is virtually impossible to get my dog across the log without one of us falling into the water. Still, I stupidly try to give it a shot. The current is moving faster ans faster, like the storm is revving an invisible motor beneath the murky, algae-coated water. I have dealt with summer monsoons before, but never this bad, and usually when I'm inside with my book.
I hear the first crackling noise when Toby and I are halfway across the log. The noise of the impromptu bridge scares my dog, and he barks loudly in the direction of the cabin, which lights I can barely discern past the sheets of rain. I think I can spot a silhouette of either my eldest cousin or my brother coming toward, but I try to keep a grip on Toby's collar as I mercilessly push him forward toward shore.
"You furry asshole, move it!" But he squeals rather than woofs, and he wriggles away and leaps onto the nearest bank, his collar ripped from his throat and dangling uselessly against my fingers. His sudden movement has aggravated the condition of the log, and sure enough, the wood splinters just enough for my left leg to slip and dip itself into the freezing current.
I cannot help screaming. I am like Timmy falling down the well, and my Lassie is an aged retriever with a bad leg, yiping at me from the muddy shore. Eventually, the log gives beneath my weight, and the chill of the water envelopes me as I swear I can hear my heart stop or at least become muffled by the sound of my incoming demise.
I am floating, endlessly, in the center of my fear. I am half-frozen in the void of Troubles. I try to squirm upward like a battered fish, only to feel a rock strike me, full force, against my cheek and possibly tear away skin.
Then a hand grabs me and pulls me up, and I am free.
***
"You might get a scar there, you know."
I grimace as I press the cloth against my face. My mother is preparing a bandage from the first aid kit. My clothes are drying on the fireplace as my uncles and aunts play cards and bitch about the rain.
"Thanks, bro," I remark to my brother sardonically. He, of course, is the one who saved my life.
"At some point," he mentions, "you'll have to save your own hide if I'm having a blast in Tijuana with college buddies for my spring break."
"Great," I mutter. "Bring me some floaty wings, then."
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.
The water is nice this time of year, so say my uncles and aunts as they lift kayaks over their heads and work together to strap them to their large vans and SUVs. They say it's a shame that I won't partake in their aqua antics. I simply smile and nod and wave goodbye as they disappear into the dust that the dirt and loose gravel has kicked up.
Every time my extended family goes to the Wafer Cabin in Sueñotardes, it is always the same deal. Mom and Dad go blackberry picking along the nearby creek while our eleven-year-old retriever Toby waddles after them, still trying to act like a puppy. My uncles and aunts do their kayaking, and the cousins accompany them with canoes. My brother builds yet another dam on the nearby bank that we call "Trouble's Bath," using an array of large rocks and branches to hinder the current. And I, as usual, curl up on one of the wooden chairs propped outside by the round table, reading a book or doing a crossword that I've just picked up from the Sueñotardes General Store.
As everyone in my family knows, I am viciously hydrophobic. I have never learned to swim, nor have I harbored an interest in doing so since my floaty wings failed at the YMCA pool and I nearly drowned at the tender age of three and a half. My mother has not pushed for me to try to overcome my fear. Neither has my dad, though he sometimes teases me when I have extreme difficulty even taking a shower. My brother, for years, has kept his music turned down and his ears perked every time I have had to wash myself, just in case I have a panic attack in the middle of shampooing my admittedly very short hair. It's always been the norm.
Of course, this summer, things are changing. We are at the Wafer Cabin to celebrate my brother's recent high school graduation, meaning he will be thousands of miles away at university while I'm stuck finding a new way to feel comfortable around water. Obviously, I can drink it and wash my hands with it and even take baths in it (as long as the water doesn't touch my chin when I lower myself into the tub), but this year in particular seems to be the year in which my aunts and uncles want to coerce me into magically overpowering a phobia that I've carried on my back for over twelve years.
I don't blame them. Still, it's good to find some time away from them. Of course, the week progresses naturally weather-wise for some time. Before the unprecedented rain, that is.
***
On the radio, we hear that the impending storm will be hitting us at around nine o'clock in the evening. This is, of course, after Toby has been let outside to pee. And I, unremarkably, am sent out to find him.
I see my dog lapping up dirty creek water just as the first drizzle begins. I bite my lip aggressively. I am half-ready to run back inside and convince my brother to cross the creek to get the dog. As it is, however, there's a fairly decent-sized log that serves as a bridge across the water, so I shakily step onto that makeshift platform and trudge toward the thirty canine.
Toby seems to have no idea what amount of stress he is putting me through, which is no surprise given that dogs don't exactly consider their owners' feelings. Still, as I make it across the creek and clamp my hand down on his dusty blue collar, I think I can see a half-melted apology baking behind his brown eyes. I'm not sure what my dog must feel so bad about until I feel the first solid drop of water break across my exposed neck.
The rain following that is utter Hell. It is virtually impossible to get my dog across the log without one of us falling into the water. Still, I stupidly try to give it a shot. The current is moving faster ans faster, like the storm is revving an invisible motor beneath the murky, algae-coated water. I have dealt with summer monsoons before, but never this bad, and usually when I'm inside with my book.
I hear the first crackling noise when Toby and I are halfway across the log. The noise of the impromptu bridge scares my dog, and he barks loudly in the direction of the cabin, which lights I can barely discern past the sheets of rain. I think I can spot a silhouette of either my eldest cousin or my brother coming toward, but I try to keep a grip on Toby's collar as I mercilessly push him forward toward shore.
"You furry asshole, move it!" But he squeals rather than woofs, and he wriggles away and leaps onto the nearest bank, his collar ripped from his throat and dangling uselessly against my fingers. His sudden movement has aggravated the condition of the log, and sure enough, the wood splinters just enough for my left leg to slip and dip itself into the freezing current.
I cannot help screaming. I am like Timmy falling down the well, and my Lassie is an aged retriever with a bad leg, yiping at me from the muddy shore. Eventually, the log gives beneath my weight, and the chill of the water envelopes me as I swear I can hear my heart stop or at least become muffled by the sound of my incoming demise.
I am floating, endlessly, in the center of my fear. I am half-frozen in the void of Troubles. I try to squirm upward like a battered fish, only to feel a rock strike me, full force, against my cheek and possibly tear away skin.
Then a hand grabs me and pulls me up, and I am free.
***
"You might get a scar there, you know."
I grimace as I press the cloth against my face. My mother is preparing a bandage from the first aid kit. My clothes are drying on the fireplace as my uncles and aunts play cards and bitch about the rain.
"Thanks, bro," I remark to my brother sardonically. He, of course, is the one who saved my life.
"At some point," he mentions, "you'll have to save your own hide if I'm having a blast in Tijuana with college buddies for my spring break."
"Great," I mutter. "Bring me some floaty wings, then."
This week's prompt was provided by Arden Kilzer.
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