“Peachy. Why do you ask?”
“I’ve never seen a canoeist pull off a limp before.” “Limp?”
“Your strokes are slowing, and they’re not as even as they were before. Should we ask Frank to let us take a break?” “Us?”
“I’m significantly younger than you are.” “Great time to rub that in.”
“But this is more physical exertion than I’ve put out since I ran cross country in high school.”
“You ran cross country? Did you ever tell me that?” “One season.”
“Just the one?”
“I quit for my parents’ sake.”
“Why?”
98
CYNTHIA RUCHTI
“To save them from the embarrassment. It didn’t bother me
to come in last every race.”
Memories of all the ways I unintentionally embarrassed my
mother—according to her—slide through my mind.
“It earned me a special trophy during the sports awards
ceremony,” Jen rambles. “ ‘Heart of a Champion,’ which I think meant ‘Least Likely to Place, Much Less Win.’ ”
I’ve found another excuse not to paddle. Overwhelming
empathy. “Oh, Jen.”
“Like I said, it didn’t bother me. It probably should have, but
I joined the cross country team for all the wrong reasons. Boys. Track and cross country guys didn’t have the swelled egos of guys on the other sports teams. Made some great friends. And please keep paddling.”
“Yes, ma’am.” My arm strokes resume with false vigor.
“After that first season, I could no longer imagine forcing
my parents to wait at the finish line long after the other par- ents packed their lawn chairs and coolers and headed home.” “You’re exaggerating.”
“Not by much. I wonder now how much stronger I’d be if
I’d stayed in sports throughout high school and college, and if I ever found an exercise program I liked in adulthood.” “I hear you.”
“You’re watching for blisters, aren’t you, Lib?”
“Blisters?” I’m watching the shoreline for a snatch of fabric
from Greg’s shirt. I’m watching the water for a floating clue. I’m watching the horizon—what we can see of it through breaks in the trees—for signs. I’m watching the sun sink too close to the horizon. But no, I’m not watching for blisters.
“Did you bring gloves?” she asks. “If we’re paddling this
many hours every day, we’ll either have to toughen up fast or wear gloves.”
99
They Almost Always Come Home
I don’t feel tough. I’m beaten down by the effort it takes to do anything up here, and by the fact that I didn’t get my wish. Dusk will soon be upon us. When we pull out the SAT phone tonight, we won’t report victory. Greg’s still missing. Over and out.
100
S even quadrillion nautical miles after launch, we nose the canoes onto the shore at the base of a picturesque hump- backed island. I assume Frank intends for us to take one of our disturbingly frequent bathroom breaks. The island seems little larger than the swim raft at camp.
“Start hauling gear, ladies,” Frank barks as he uncoils his
legs and sprints out of his canoe.
“Where?” Jen asks before I can.
Frank points with his forehead and chin. “Up there.” He
hoists the rough canvas Duluth pack, the tackle box, and the waterproof container for the SAT phone, and takes the rock climb two-at-a-time like a teen bounds upstairs to his room after school.
“Jen?”
“What?”
“Do you suppose he means we’ll camp here tonight?”
“Looks like it.” She keeps her voice low as she unstraps the
cord securing our packs to the safe interior of the canoe. Sound carries too well here.
I roll my shoulders, preparing to switch from paddling
mode to hauling. “Isn’t this the ultimate in inefficiency?”
11
101
They Almost Always Come Home
“What?”
“We unload the Blazer, then load it all into our canoes, paddle untold hours past bays and pine trees I know I’ve seen before, then pull into a portage location, haul it all out of the canoe, pick up the canoe, carry it over the trail, go back
“I’ve never seen a canoeist pull off a limp before.” “Limp?”
“Your strokes are slowing, and they’re not as even as they were before. Should we ask Frank to let us take a break?” “Us?”
“I’m significantly younger than you are.” “Great time to rub that in.”
“But this is more physical exertion than I’ve put out since I ran cross country in high school.”
“You ran cross country? Did you ever tell me that?” “One season.”
“Just the one?”
“I quit for my parents’ sake.”
“Why?”
98
CYNTHIA RUCHTI
“To save them from the embarrassment. It didn’t bother me
to come in last every race.”
Memories of all the ways I unintentionally embarrassed my
mother—according to her—slide through my mind.
“It earned me a special trophy during the sports awards
ceremony,” Jen rambles. “ ‘Heart of a Champion,’ which I think meant ‘Least Likely to Place, Much Less Win.’ ”
I’ve found another excuse not to paddle. Overwhelming
empathy. “Oh, Jen.”
“Like I said, it didn’t bother me. It probably should have, but
I joined the cross country team for all the wrong reasons. Boys. Track and cross country guys didn’t have the swelled egos of guys on the other sports teams. Made some great friends. And please keep paddling.”
“Yes, ma’am.” My arm strokes resume with false vigor.
“After that first season, I could no longer imagine forcing
my parents to wait at the finish line long after the other par- ents packed their lawn chairs and coolers and headed home.” “You’re exaggerating.”
“Not by much. I wonder now how much stronger I’d be if
I’d stayed in sports throughout high school and college, and if I ever found an exercise program I liked in adulthood.” “I hear you.”
“You’re watching for blisters, aren’t you, Lib?”
“Blisters?” I’m watching the shoreline for a snatch of fabric
from Greg’s shirt. I’m watching the water for a floating clue. I’m watching the horizon—what we can see of it through breaks in the trees—for signs. I’m watching the sun sink too close to the horizon. But no, I’m not watching for blisters.
“Did you bring gloves?” she asks. “If we’re paddling this
many hours every day, we’ll either have to toughen up fast or wear gloves.”
99
They Almost Always Come Home
I don’t feel tough. I’m beaten down by the effort it takes to do anything up here, and by the fact that I didn’t get my wish. Dusk will soon be upon us. When we pull out the SAT phone tonight, we won’t report victory. Greg’s still missing. Over and out.
100
S even quadrillion nautical miles after launch, we nose the canoes onto the shore at the base of a picturesque hump- backed island. I assume Frank intends for us to take one of our disturbingly frequent bathroom breaks. The island seems little larger than the swim raft at camp.
“Start hauling gear, ladies,” Frank barks as he uncoils his
legs and sprints out of his canoe.
“Where?” Jen asks before I can.
Frank points with his forehead and chin. “Up there.” He
hoists the rough canvas Duluth pack, the tackle box, and the waterproof container for the SAT phone, and takes the rock climb two-at-a-time like a teen bounds upstairs to his room after school.
“Jen?”
“What?”
“Do you suppose he means we’ll camp here tonight?”
“Looks like it.” She keeps her voice low as she unstraps the
cord securing our packs to the safe interior of the canoe. Sound carries too well here.
I roll my shoulders, preparing to switch from paddling
mode to hauling. “Isn’t this the ultimate in inefficiency?”
11
101
They Almost Always Come Home
“What?”
“We unload the Blazer, then load it all into our canoes, paddle untold hours past bays and pine trees I know I’ve seen before, then pull into a portage location, haul it all out of the canoe, pick up the canoe, carry it over the trail, go back
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