I rested my chin on my folded arms as I stared out over the river. I loved it here with the wind blowing through my hair. I could feel all the knots of tension and doubt unwinding from my shoulders. Anticipation had made me more up-tight than I realized. Now, the gentle folds of land on the far bank, barely brushed with spring-green, were relaxing me. Their unhurried descent to the river bed took eons. Why was life usually so hurried, keeping us from savoring its offerings? Here on the river it rarely was and that is what kept drawing me back.
"They're made of cement, you know," I said.
"No way!" he looked up from the double-view telescope in disbelief.
"Really," I laughed into his scowling face, turning to lean back against the observation rail along the view point to better absorb what he looked like.
"What kind of cement?" he demanded, straightening up.
"The floating kind," I said, trying to sound matter-of-fact. As if that would explain it. He looked at me, dumbfounded, and turned back to the telescope unsure if I was kidding of not. I knew how he felt. Although I had known since childhood that the barges were made of cement, I still found it almost unbelievable. It was a modern-day, heavy-duty miracle that they floated. I turned back to the water and studied the clean little tugs industriously pushing the barges up-river and maneuvering them do wn. I think I would like to be a tug boat captain. It's a nice, solid, useful occupation. It takes skill and patience and often even teamwork. Few other vehicles or vessels act as teams. Those captains shared a close-knit camaraderie and besides, they got to be on the river every day.
I hadn't decided what the barges were filled with. Grain,probably. It was encouraging, though, believing they weren't filled with garbage. That would have been just too unromantic. The smoke from the tug boats' stacks rose and dissipated in the air as the breeze caught it.
"Look," he cried excitedly, "a river boat!"
The stately stern-wheeler was just moving into view. White stacks and intricate railings, its distinctive shape was obvious with only the bow visible. The bright red paddle wheel at the stern cleared the trees and I watched the water splash and spray as it turned, propelling the boat up-river. Sadly, no smoke came from the stacks which meant the stern-wheeler had been converted . . .probably to fossil fuels although not diesel. Bruce didn't seem to notice. This was his first experience with my bel oved Columbia River and its incredible gorge. He seemed as thoroughly bewitched by it as I had always been. Prehistoric geology laid bare for my examination. Evidence of glaciers and volcanoes and oceans. I was willing to spend a lifetime exploring th e lessons it had to teach.And the gorge was in no hurry. What I missed today was still there tomorrow for another try. Like the river which, although changing continuously, remains the same.
He finally stood from the telescope and stretched backward, his hands at his waist, to get the kinks out of his back. How many times had I done that over the last few years? He leaned with one elbow on the rail so that he could scrutinize my face. We had almost avoided looking at each other since I picked him up from the airport. Now I was no less intent than he to impress on my brain every cell of his face. I had waited impatiently for this day. Pictures and my imagination had not succeeded in conjuring up a man so three-dimensional. E-Mail had been fine, but this was, well, VERY physical!
"I wonder," he mused, engulfing me in his arms, "if there are any openings for tug boat captains. I feel an irresistible need to move to Oregon." I loved my computer. It had helped us to create this reality, our own heavy-duty, modern day miracle. I knew, too, that like the river and the boats, neither of us would have to relinquish our own strengths. I could just barely see the top of Mt. St. Helens through the Washington hills on the far bank. At that moment, I felt a wonderful and exciting kinship with the ancient volcano as I closed my eyes to return his kiss.
