For hours I stare out across the water, letting my mind drift and flow with the current, careful to avoid the eddies where I might have to pause; where I might have to think. Those places grown stagnant on the edge of the current, where debris has backed up and sits there to rot.
I thought back to my childhood growing up on a houseboat in the Columbia River weekends and summers. I had to smile, thinking of my best friend, Steve. We had started a worm-sales business, selling red worms and night crawlers to the weekend fishermen who showed up with no bait. We branched out to sell them the crawdads that were too small to eat. And over the course of three summers, I beat Steve out of all the marbles in his collection worth having.
On the river, Steve and I wore swimsuits and Romeos - ALWAYS. If we fell in, we didn't want to be hampered by clothes and we could just kick off the slippers. In the cold, rainy, early spring days, as the small tributaries began to thaw, the winter's accumulation of dead leaves, branches and decaying eels were released from their icy tombs and carried toward the sea on the rushing current of the water. When they reached the obstruction presented by the head of the marine, they stacked up, growing deeper and deeper. Before long, there would be a thick, spongy mass that we could walk on. It was hard to believe that below this shifting foothold there were twenty feet of dark and rushing water.
Not only did the putrefying eels stink, but the sheer weight of the debris threatened the stability of the marina itself. So, over our swimsuits, Steve and I donned our fathers' black leather jackets and headed out beyond the marina, long gaff hooks in hand. It fell our lot to hood those slimy eels and fling them out to deeper water to find their way to the ocean or be eaten by bigger scavenger fish. Using our gaffs, we would then work together pushing large chunks of matted debris out into the current until we had cleared the marina of any immediate threat.
Since storms produced more garbage, it was usually on stormy days that you could see Steve and me standing ON the river in, seemingly, only black leather jackets and slippers, being pelted by wind and rain. Someone always had hot cocoa ready for us when we returned, cold, dripping and exhausted. In fact, we usually had several offers since most of the folks at the moorage were very thankful that someone else had completed the onerous task.
No long gaff existed for me today to hook the slimy dead eels which threatened to sink my life. Our relationship had frozen and was now thawing. All the small bits of debris were stacking up to an overwhelming depth. I had to take action or my heart would be broken from its moorings and I would be flung out to deeper currents where I would be eaten alive by the scavengers. My only hope was to take firm control and, if no gaff existed, well, I'd just have to grab the stench by hand to free myself of it. There was no way to do it and stay clean, but I had somehow allowed my whole life to be manipulated by a man who no longer loved me.
The fact that I still loved him didn't matter. If I didn't find a way to give over a part of my heart and wall it up, I'd slowly bleed to death because of love. It didn't make any sense.
Worse yet, I was afraid. Afraid I couldn't make it on my own. Afraid I couldn't keep up the maintenance on the house and the car and all the machines. Afraid I couldn't earn enough. Afraid I wouldn't be there when the kids needed me if I was working. Afraid of having no one to talk to. Afraid of sleeping along - forever. Afraid of being afraid.
I still wanted the fairy tale life I believed in when we married but even that was dwindling. What I really wanted now was peace inside myself and the courage to take action. I HAD to do something in order to preserve my own sanity and pr0tect the kids.
And so I stared at the river . . . waiting for its current to flow into me and make me strong. Because deep in my soul it had taught me a lesson . . . comfort is always waiting when the most unpleasant job is actually done.
