I am afraid.
Sludge-green water the opacity of weak coffee slurps at the raft. We're in the bull's eye center of the lake. Dry land - safety - looms tantalizingly near in each direction, yet not close enough. The wind whips my hair out of my face and then immediately back into my eyes. The clouds race across the horizon. The birdsongs go silent.
We're drifting with the wind now. I let out a stifled scream. Or, it escapes from my lips: a reflex of fear. I don't need to be brave. I just need you to think I am. What if you judge me? I let go and gasp, "you...you have to steer us! We're going to crash!"
Your hand is sun-kissed a deep bronze, rather "Hollywood" for a white kid from North Dakota. You clench the rudder with a calm strength. Our course smooths out. It stabilizes. My erratic navigation is forgotten in an instant. I think the craft wheezes its sigh of relief.
"I told you we weren't going to crash," I meekly mumble through the smile I attempt to flash in your direction.
Our conversation picks up again with the wind. Rounding a bend in the shore, we pass a family of four fishing, or at least dressed down for the part. The youngest - a girl - might actually be wearing pink pajamas. Images of aquatic monsters vanish from my thoughts. Children couldn't frolic so near the edge if such water-dwelling beasts really exist, I reason to myself. "This is very reasonable," my subconscious agrees with myself since I don't see any crunched and bloody bones littering the shore.
No, the aquatic monsters aren't the issue. For all we know, Nessie is quite friendly. But those slurky, chirging, squeerlish water plants! I attempt to avoid gazing too closely at the brine lapping the sides of our craft. What might be hidden in those tangled knots of vegetation? Tentacles! Pinchers! Thousands of tiny, lacerating teeth!
We have so much to catch up on. Small talk first, then"what'dya think of so-and-so's new book," and finally, "have you heard from your ex lately?" Over the years we've both ventured to imagine what life would be like if we were nearer to each other - if we could have these conversations weekly, even daily (preferable on dry ground). I wonder if I should mention it now. Instead I make a joke.
"If this was 50 years ago I'd be wearing a dress!"
"And I'd be wearing a three piece suite!" you say.
We both crack up. You think you're hilarious for pointing out that I'd maybe have a big floppy had and a parasol. I think I'm smart for informing you, "no. That would be 80 years ago." To your credit, you agree with me.
Up ahead the dimpled surface catches my glance, the telltale sign of a patch of underwater foliage floating very near the surface. I flinch involuntarily. Reflexively.
"What would you do if I drove us right over that?" you ask with a good-natured smirk. (It's like you know the contrast between your teeth and movie-star tan would be blinding. Your smile is teeth-less, and therefore somehow softer.)
In the second it takes me to process your question I see we've approached within feet of the floating menace. You don't really believe I could be scared of such an inanimate glob of chlorophyll and cellulose, do you? More than the dark, even more than public speaking? Yes!
Abruptly, at the last possible second, we turn, and we pass the saturated tangle with inches to spare. These inches are measured from your side of our craft. I mark this significant detail as I realize I had forgotten to exhale. And, I had forgotten that your smooth hand was still guiding our voyage.
You saved me. The thing I fear most, and you don't even flinch as you stare straight into the swampy depths.
The wind picks up again. We chatter on again about beauty, hard work, and family grudges. Soon we safely land at the dock, all dangers a memory of the distant past. Life and limb are safe once again, and really always have been. On average, how many paddle boat accidents does one hear about on a yearly basis? In North Dakota?
I never was afraid.
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