XXXVIII. Five-Minute Adventures (Pt. 1)
by Sack Madin
I hit the snooze button on my alarm every morning for at least 45 minutes. These are the quietest, most still moments I get all day, yet they are also the most exciting, arousing, passionate, frightening, bizarre times I ever experience. The closest I feel to being alive.
This morning I hit the snooze button and proceeded into the river with my dad. The river wasn’t familiar, but I felt like I had been there a hundred times before. We both rowed along in single crew boats, sometimes rowing alongside each other, at times seemingly a quarter of a mile apart from each other. We commandeered some of the most brilliant looking boats I’ve ever seen. They were all wood with the grain emphasized, extremely thin and rather short for a crew boat, but were buffed to a patent leather shine. Mine had a yellow lacquer finish with white detailing. I think my dad’s was green.
The water was a completely opaque midnight blue, almost black. It shimmered a million tiny mirrors, the sun striking it at a harsh angle. The spray from the oars chilled my skin like it does on the first warm day of spring when the waters still flow winter cold. I had on a white t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Breezes ruffled the leafy green vines at the water’s edge. They billowed and spilled over each other down the sides of the hills leading to the river. None of the river’s banks were accessible because of the superfluous foliage. I’d never seen the species before. It looked like some kind of kudzu or Asian ivy, but pillowy soft. It was certainly persistent.
The air smelled clean but hostile. It was sweet but cold. Unarguably organic, but antiseptic like a doctor’s office.
As I rounded the bend in the river, the banks began to narrow and I couldn’t see my dad behind me because I’d gained a fair distance on him in a short amount of time. Usually this happens because we are fishing and he stops at every tasty spot while I cruise on ahead to new water, but we didn’t have the rods with us today. We just kept rowing towards our destination.
At first the splashes were small. This excited me because splashes mean fish are around. Big fish. But I remembered I didn’t have my rod so I’d have to remain a polite observer, taking in the experience as a connoisseur of nature events. The splashes grew bigger, and I could have sworn I saw a tiger’s head come out from the water in the middle of the splash. It was white as snow. I saw it again, and it was definitely a tiger’s head. I could distinctly see the triangle nose and ears and teeth bared. Its features emulated the shape of the splash in the water. It kind of roared as it came up, presumably for air.
The splashes stopped for a second, and I didn’t know whether to wait for my dad or to move on ahead. My choice was forced when the horse, white like the tiger, splashed out of the water and shook and thrashed and crashed back below the inky surface. This was the only confusing thing, because I didn’t know if it was tigers, horses, or both below me. I didn’t know if the tigers were chasing the horses underwater, or if they were jumping for another reason.
The next horse rose out of the water and kind of hovered, white, half way out. It vibrated as if it was shivering. It rose out of the water alongside me and maintained its height, just like a synchronized swimmer, except it didn’t smile. It had a nervous, crazed look in its eyes. Its mouth and teeth were locked in a sort of half agape, rigid angle, like it stopped in the middle of chewing. I realized as it rocked in the water that it’s shivering was not from cold, but from movement and fear. It was kicking to stay afloat.
As much as I was magnetized to this phenomenon, I began to row intently away from it. It saw me and began a slow arc in the water, turning around to follow; it didn’t cut like a quarter horse but angled with the grace of a greyhound bus, jerkily making the rotation. Fascination continued to battle my fear, but I kept moving. Suddenly I realized the horror and beauty of the situation. This water-horse was runswimming for its life. Sharks, not tigers, were taking passes at its exposed legs and it kicked mightily below the surface for both fight and flight. I knew this. I knew the tragic scene below; the horses evading capture from sharks, not tigers, and I knew the cold midnight currents were about to run red.
The water-horse gained on me, now moving like an apparition all too real. It was now grayish white. Its front limbs were locked, hooves down, frozen in an upright gallop-kick. The expression on its face never faltered, and now it stared me in the eyes. It wanted my boat, the only source of refuge from the sharks, and it wanted me out of it. A strange dynamic, the water-horse engaged with the shark, actively pursuing me with ill intentions. I wanted to help the water-horse, but it wanted to kill me, and the shark wanted to kill the water-horse, and vice versa. We would never fit on my boat even if I offered him safe passage. And even then, to where?
The water-horse’s lack of reasoning frustrated me. If I gave him a ride, we would both sink and die. If he knocked me out, I would die, and he would die later as he would have no means of steering the boat and would slowly starve. He was out of options, but would not resign to his fate. I didn’t know if I loved him or hated him for that.
He gained on me, hooves now hanging over my head. I thought about trying to talk to the water-horse, to reason with him.
I hit the snooze button on my alarm every morning for at least 45 minutes. These are the quietest, most still moments I get all day, yet they are also the most exciting, arousing, passionate, frightening, bizarre times I ever experience. The closest I feel to being alive.
This morning I hit the snooze button and proceeded into the river with my dad. The river wasn’t familiar, but I felt like I had been there a hundred times before. We both rowed along in single crew boats, sometimes rowing alongside each other, at times seemingly a quarter of a mile apart from each other. We commandeered some of the most brilliant looking boats I’ve ever seen. They were all wood with the grain emphasized, extremely thin and rather short for a crew boat, but were buffed to a patent leather shine. Mine had a yellow lacquer finish with white detailing. I think my dad’s was green.
The water was a completely opaque midnight blue, almost black. It shimmered a million tiny mirrors, the sun striking it at a harsh angle. The spray from the oars chilled my skin like it does on the first warm day of spring when the waters still flow winter cold. I had on a white t-shirt with the sleeves cut off. Breezes ruffled the leafy green vines at the water’s edge. They billowed and spilled over each other down the sides of the hills leading to the river. None of the river’s banks were accessible because of the superfluous foliage. I’d never seen the species before. It looked like some kind of kudzu or Asian ivy, but pillowy soft. It was certainly persistent.
The air smelled clean but hostile. It was sweet but cold. Unarguably organic, but antiseptic like a doctor’s office.
As I rounded the bend in the river, the banks began to narrow and I couldn’t see my dad behind me because I’d gained a fair distance on him in a short amount of time. Usually this happens because we are fishing and he stops at every tasty spot while I cruise on ahead to new water, but we didn’t have the rods with us today. We just kept rowing towards our destination.
At first the splashes were small. This excited me because splashes mean fish are around. Big fish. But I remembered I didn’t have my rod so I’d have to remain a polite observer, taking in the experience as a connoisseur of nature events. The splashes grew bigger, and I could have sworn I saw a tiger’s head come out from the water in the middle of the splash. It was white as snow. I saw it again, and it was definitely a tiger’s head. I could distinctly see the triangle nose and ears and teeth bared. Its features emulated the shape of the splash in the water. It kind of roared as it came up, presumably for air.
The splashes stopped for a second, and I didn’t know whether to wait for my dad or to move on ahead. My choice was forced when the horse, white like the tiger, splashed out of the water and shook and thrashed and crashed back below the inky surface. This was the only confusing thing, because I didn’t know if it was tigers, horses, or both below me. I didn’t know if the tigers were chasing the horses underwater, or if they were jumping for another reason.
The next horse rose out of the water and kind of hovered, white, half way out. It vibrated as if it was shivering. It rose out of the water alongside me and maintained its height, just like a synchronized swimmer, except it didn’t smile. It had a nervous, crazed look in its eyes. Its mouth and teeth were locked in a sort of half agape, rigid angle, like it stopped in the middle of chewing. I realized as it rocked in the water that it’s shivering was not from cold, but from movement and fear. It was kicking to stay afloat.
As much as I was magnetized to this phenomenon, I began to row intently away from it. It saw me and began a slow arc in the water, turning around to follow; it didn’t cut like a quarter horse but angled with the grace of a greyhound bus, jerkily making the rotation. Fascination continued to battle my fear, but I kept moving. Suddenly I realized the horror and beauty of the situation. This water-horse was runswimming for its life. Sharks, not tigers, were taking passes at its exposed legs and it kicked mightily below the surface for both fight and flight. I knew this. I knew the tragic scene below; the horses evading capture from sharks, not tigers, and I knew the cold midnight currents were about to run red.
The water-horse gained on me, now moving like an apparition all too real. It was now grayish white. Its front limbs were locked, hooves down, frozen in an upright gallop-kick. The expression on its face never faltered, and now it stared me in the eyes. It wanted my boat, the only source of refuge from the sharks, and it wanted me out of it. A strange dynamic, the water-horse engaged with the shark, actively pursuing me with ill intentions. I wanted to help the water-horse, but it wanted to kill me, and the shark wanted to kill the water-horse, and vice versa. We would never fit on my boat even if I offered him safe passage. And even then, to where?
The water-horse’s lack of reasoning frustrated me. If I gave him a ride, we would both sink and die. If he knocked me out, I would die, and he would die later as he would have no means of steering the boat and would slowly starve. He was out of options, but would not resign to his fate. I didn’t know if I loved him or hated him for that.
He gained on me, hooves now hanging over my head. I thought about trying to talk to the water-horse, to reason with him.
posted by Max Rays at 12:14 PM
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