Whose idea was it to rent a canoe on the Russian River?
We were in California on our honeymoon 50 years ago.
The guy at the rental said it was a tidal river. We’d canoe
11-12 miles up-river, eat the sandwiches we bought
at the convenience store, then ride the tide going out
on the way back. We’d timed it perfectly, he said.
The day was bright, warm, just right. Lush vines, shrubs,
tanoaks, and redwoods framed our journey, their leaves
cheering us along our romantic purl. Eleven miles upriver
we found a nook, beached our canoe, had lunch: chicken
salad on sourdough never tasted so good. Sated with food
and love we aimed our canoe downstream, except it wasn’t
downstream. It was still upstream long after the rental guy
said the tide would change direction. Fighting the tide
was hard enough, but soon clouds formed, wind picked up,
rain slapped our faces, reminded us that nothing is certain
in this tearful realm. Our puny paddles were no match for
the foot-high waves. Had the River Styx been this rageful,
no one in ancient Greece would have died. It took three
gritty hours to get back to the rental place. That night every
muscle in our bodies groaned in pain. It was as if some nasty
god, summoned by jealous nuns, starched our bodies. We
couldn’t move. We two Frankensteins, postured ourselves into
opposite sides of the king-size bed in the honeymoon suite
and said, in unison, Don’t touch me.
Charlie Brice won the 2020 Field Guide Poetry Magazine Poetry Contest and placed third in the 2021 Allen Ginsberg Poetry Prize. His sixth full-length poetry collection is Miracles That Keep Me Going (WordTech Editions, 2023). His poetry has been nominated three times for the Best of Net Anthology and the Pushcart Prize and has appeared in Atlanta Review, The Honest Ulsterman, Ibbetson Street, Chiron Review, The Paterson Literary Review, Impspired Magazine, and elsewhere.
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