Wednesday, July 8, 2009
"Some rocks may hit the motor, babe, don't worry, we'll be fine, we're not going to sink or anything."
He's told me this exact same thing every time we go on this part of the river for the past 13 years but each time I pretend as if it's the first time I've heard it.
"Okay," I say, "I'll be ready," secretly enjoying being watched over.
The water is so shallow on this upper part of the river that you have to dodge and dart through the maze of rocks or you will hit a few. It's rather on-golden-pond-esque, minus the hole in the boat, the gash in the forehead and hours spent clinging to a rock. But then you remember the movie.
Upriver we motor on, dodging, talking, seeing fish here and there, someone's camera at the bottom of the river, a beer can. The water is so clear, and quiet and a welcome respite.
We stop, switching to the quiet motor and I start a steady stream of babble, reminding me of our first date, where I talked and talked and he listened and uh-huh-ed his way through the conversation and I knew right then that things would be different with him.
So on I ramble about nothing, and something, this that and the other, the big issues, the little ones, from switching car insurance to dreams, raising kids to knitting, to fishing, and the night passes much more quickly than we'd like.
He does a lot of this:
I do a lot of this:
and the sun makes it's way down toward the water,
leaving us full with it's red-orange glow.