Smack Smack

We had been on the Animas River for 30 minutes.  Five minutes of hold-on-for-your-life thrills.  Twenty five minutes of bask, no melt, in the sun while the cottonwoods taunt you with shade.  Twenty five minutes of small talk.  Twenty five minutes of sight-seeing.  Twenty five minutes of smack, smack.

“Could you chew with your mouth closed?” I asked, hardly masking my annoyance.  Has a teenager ever masked her annoyance?  Not this one.  My cousin, William, did not respond.  He probably didn’t even hear me.  There he sat, eight years old, gap-toothed, slathered in more sunscreen than any of us, with the biggest grin on his face.  The piece of wintermint gum was clearly visible at the edge of his smile.

Smack Smack.

This particular adventure started like many others before and several more to follow.  The adults felt that us kids needed more “life experiences”.  Most often those life experiences involved family and character building.  So here we were, the whole family dressed in matching life jackets ready to get wet.  Determined to make the best of my situation I had claimed the bow of the raft as my own - first into the action and guaranteed to get soaked.  To show I meant business, I turned my hat backwards.  It screamed, “I don’t follow the rules!”

“Young lady, you need to keep your feet in the raft.”  Hoping nobody else had seen me, I put my head down and turned my body around so I was no longer hanging off the edge.  “As I was saying, just remember to brace yourself for impact,” the rafting guide explained to us.  “And keep your mouth shut when we hit the rapids.  You wouldn’t believe the things I’ve seen fly into, or outta, folks’ mouths.  Which reminds me, anybody have dentures? ”  Never, in all my thirteen years, had I heard a joke more corny, and I rolled my eyes.  Great, a comic.  That being said, I reminded myself to clench my jaws at every bump.  

It started off well.  The first set of Class II waves excited us all, spraying us in the face.  I felt brave, daring, sitting on the edge eagerly waiting for more rapids.  My only problem was that cursed wad of gum and William’s inability to chew with his mouth closed.   I had listened to it during the safety directions, the bus ride to the put-in at 32nd street, and the whole way down the river to this point.

The Animas is a glorified lazy river with spontaneous moments of excitement.  Partway down the river, just past the high school, my uncle decided to get into the “Swimming Pool” - aptly named due to its calm demeanour and depth - the perfect spot to up the ante in both the experience of the rafters and the tip of the rafting guide.  A win-win.  Of course, my uncle Kevin ended up doing very little swimming, mostly just bobbing up and down.  It was all fun and games until we had to haul him back into the raft.  One minute he was buoyant and laughing, light as a feather; the next he was dead weight with a look of concern as we tried to haul him up the round, slippery edge of the inflated raft.  Let’s just say it took multiple tries.

Most people would have appreciated the sound of the waters rushing against the rocks, my grandmother testing our rafting guide’s knowledge of Durango, and the fits of giggles as cold water unexpectedly hits our bodies.  For me the soundtrack of the moment was smack, smack.

The rapids being few and far between, I took in the surroundings .  Looking at the water, I was reminded of my fish tank back home.  It was large, given to us for Christmas one year by my grandmother.  It had multi-colored rocks on the bottom, a house for the shy fish to hide, and a couple of plastic plants.  My mom, in a moment of sheer creativity made even more impressive since this was long before the days of pinterest, taped red wrapping paper on the back of the tank to give it some sparkling pizazz.  So basically my fish lived in the plastic depths of hell.

Oh how the fish fascinated me.  I’d watch as they swam lazily against the red facade.  But the novelty wore off the first time we had to clean the water.

We knew it was time when the one sucker fish couldn’t keep up with the need.  The fuzz started to creep up the sides of the tank, the red sparkling paper looked more magenta, and little floaties held suspended in the water.  Everything was coated in feces.  And oh dear God, the smell.

This thought was not too far from my mind as I looked at the river water sloshing around my feet at the bottom of the raft.

Smack, smack, smack.

Another rapid.  I covered my teeth with my lips as tightly as I could.  I had no intention of drinking poop water.  The shouts of “Whoa!  Oh No!  Yes!!!!!” echoed around me. Then it came, one particularly large rapid - Smelter Rapid.  I watched as kayakers disappeared over the water’s hump and eagerly positioned myself to maximize the splash.

“Brace yourselves and listen to my directions!” The guide shouted over the increasingly loud sound of the rapids.  “Port side, paddle hard!  Starboard side!  Faster.  Together now - here we go!”  

At the bow, I saw what looked like a massive dip where the water disappeared momentarily.  In reality it was a small rapid, but to me it was Niagra Falls.  I forgot to paddle.  My body went into survival mode.  I wedged my feet underneath the edge of the raft and braced myself.  Over we went.

As we began the descent, I noticed the force with which the water ruthlessly slammed against the rocks and my eyes widened in fear.  I prepared for impact.  My arms went out, fruitlessly grasping air in their search for support.   At the moment my butt bounced off the seat a small blue misshapen blob, about the size of a grape, flew into my vision.  In slow motion, I watched it arc and then dive down, down, down.  It made its final landing in the murky pool of river water at our feet.  The wad floated back and forth with the rhythm of the river.  Across William’s feet.  Across my brother, Mark’s, feet.  My feet.  Back to Mark’s feet then William’s.

William shouted in horror, “My gum!” Simultaneously, Mark and I laughed.

I felt zero sympathy.  “That’s why you should chew with your mouth closed William.  I told you so.” Not surprisingly, he wasn’t listening.  There are no words to describe how thrilled I was in that second.  Reeking of teenage smugness, I crossed my arms and sat back.  

There is a God, I told myself as I watched the gum swim to and fro, knowing it was trashed and praying that my uncle didn’t have anymore.  Now I can enjoy the rest of this rafting trip.  Mesmerized by the gum, my meditation was rudely interrupted by a small white hand. The splayed fingers grasped frantically around in the water.

William was trying to catch the gum.  Well, that’s nice of him, I though.  He’s trying to throw it away so we don’t step on it.  I gave William an indulgent smile that spoke “that’s-so-sweet.”  If you’ve ever tried to catch the soap in the bottom of a wet bathtub, then you’d be able to relate with William.
He crouched down and cornered the gum against the raft; his hand closed around the wad.

“Good job William!  Just throw . . . . “ In mid-sentence of my comment and without even a pause, William lifted his fist up victorious and moved it closer to his face.  He inspected the gum for a quick second.  Then . . . PLOP.  
Smack, smack.

Oh the shock!  I was dumbfounded.  Shouts of “ew” and “gross” echoed around the raft when reality hit.
“Did you see that!?  Did you see what William just did!?” Mark shouted looking around frantically for someone who could relate to his consternation.  All I could think about was William’s content expression as he enjoyed the taste of wintergreen, now with a hint of fish slime.  Was I disgusted?  Annoyed?  No.  I was impressed.  This little boy had just eaten fish shit and his street credibility went up dramatically in my eyes.  My little cousin was a badass.  I was speechless.  I had experienced a true “life experience.”  And my cousin?  Well, he already had character.  

Smack, smack, smack.

Genre: Personal Narrative (Nonfiction)

Setting: ~Summer 1998