Marek

Change the way you see things, and the things around you change. ~ unknown

I met my husband on the river. We worked for the same rafting company. Actually, he had been working for said rafting company for over 3 years. At 26, I joined the ranks of ECHO's finest class of '93 and earned the title "first year guide". I had missed guide school due to finishing college, so I was already a remedial case. My choice to run rivers for the summer was sort of , last minute. Fleeing a failed relationship on the heels of graduating college, I needed to fall off the radar of my existing life, so I loaded the roof of my '91 Subaru with a windsurfer, 2 bikes and a kayak and headed west. Two of my very good friends already worked for the company and were transitioning out of river running to the "non-seasonal" life. They put in a good word, and there I was at the preseason kickoff party in a room full of 18-20 somethings on the heels of my own 3rd decade. While most of my friends were getting out of seasonal work like coaching skiing, or river guiding, I turned down a $30,000/year offer to "get my head together" working for $50/day.
My friend showed me around. Her significant other and good friend of mine had yet to arrive. He had been out kayaking with friends that day. Among my new class of first years, there were two guys from the Bay area who were already drunk by the time I arrived.
"I'm Tim."
"I'm Jake"
"I'm Tori, nice to meet you."
"Can we get you a beer?" (This would prove to be their greatest service in the 6 years we worked together).
My friend already had designs on who to set me up with and started introducing me to them. Unbeknownst to her, I had sworn off men forever and was planning on joining a convent when the river season was over. I was hear to get some survival skills, learn to live outdoors and navigate rivers. I was to be a rugged individualist, swayed by no man, and if anything, was considering relationships with women. I was still working on a plan to make this work as sex with women didn't appeal to me in the least. However, I'd had it with men emotionally and was convinced I could "choke down" a female relationship somehow. At some point in the evening, it became evident that my lack of interest was beginning to show and I was getting ready to excuse myself. My friend's significant other finally arrived, and on his heels was the most visually appealing human being I had ever laid eyes on.
"WHO is that?" I demanded.
He was beauty and perfection and walked on air. His long brown hair was thick and slightly curly at the end. He was tan, fit, and had a bright white smile that made my knees shake. I was paralyzed as he walked over to us and we were introduced. His voice was deep and definite and his air of humble confidence was intoxicating. He wore a worn white, T-shirt, red linen pants with ties at the ankles and one pure, silver ring on his second toe. I could not take my eyes off of him and felt like everyone in the room could hear my heart beating.
"We've met before" he said.
"Hmmm, I don't remember."
"Great, I'll try not take it personally."
Off to a good start, I remained as aloof and uninterested as possible. I avoided him, sat on opposite sides of the room, tried not to engage. I feared it was obvious that my Fight or Flight mechanism was doing overtime. He was ruining my plans to be independent and fierce. Later, it turned out, he managed the river I wanted to work and he held it over me with invitations to "train" or "learn the camp routine". Having missed guide school, I needed the time on the river so approval was simple. He turned me into a puddle of girlie mush, and it was not serving my purpose. Finally, after three weeks, I gave in. I succumbed to his manipulation of our sleeping locations and the sweetness of that very first kiss is still fresh in my mind. We've been married 15 years.
Over the years, my husband and I have done some fairly amazing things. We did a lot of kayaking together throughout California and Oregon on some challenging Class IV and Class V rivers. Mostly, I was in fear of my life, but that smile and the way he looked into my soul made me follow him everywhere. Often, I was paddling at a level over my head. I would get to a rapid and he would tell me the run. He would catch an eddy in the middle of the drop and be there waiting for me. When you approach a rapid, often, there is nothing but a horizon line and no way to orient yourself in the rapid until you are right in the middle of it. It's a leap of faith of sorts. White-knuckled and petrified, I was always determined to go charging into the rapid and nail the move. I surprised myself on just about every occasion, and eventually became a fairly decent kayaker. Kayaking, for me, was always about being scared to death and overcoming that fear by charging right toward the edge of a watery abyss.
Over the years, getting "non-seasonal" jobs, buying a home, and having kids, my husband and I seemed to have traded that intense connection for a quieter, sacrificial-type of love where he goes to a job he doesn't choose for himself to provide for his family and I embrace the roles of homemaker and mother, jobs I had not ever envisioned for myself nor had the remotest idea of how to perform. We lament over petty issues from time to time and frequently disagree over food budgets and ice cream flavors.
We now embark on an entirely new adventure. One that has blind-sided us and caused us to ask ourselves, "are we living life to the fullest? Are we choosing the life we wish to live? " It's an answer that will have to come later as now that we go barrelling into the challenges of a cancer lifestyle, we are now forced to look back on our life experiences for guidance.
Cancer scares me. It's a disease that kills people and turns survivors inside out. However, the only way to get through it is to charge it, face it full on and build a really big cheering section on shore. There's no portage option. You have to run every drop, without seeing it first and nail it. There's no one in the bottom eddy with green eyes smiling up to you with love.
A year or so ago, I went kayaking by myself with DeRiemer Adventure Kayaking. The owner and river guru, Phil DeRiemer and I had the good fortune of running a stretch of river together and he pushed me out to the front. I caught every eddy. I was afraid to lead, and had no confidence that I could go down river without having someone to show me the line, But Phil was persistent, an gently taught me how. It was a crossroads in my kayaking but it was also a realization that perhaps it was time to be that person. It was time to grow up a little and be the smiling person in the downstream eddy bringing comfort to fledgling boaters.
Cancer treatment is a lot like charging the horizon line, hoping you are on line and the maelstrom below is not going to eat you up and spit you out, but even if it does, most often you come out changed for the better, if you come out, that is.
My husband always ran the drops first. He'd find a visible eddy and sit in it, looking up at me with those big green eyes and gesturing with his paddle where the line was. He always had a big, genuine smile on his face like there was no place he would rather be. And I, smitten with those eyes and that smile, would follow him anywhere.
However, I am the first one running this Cancer drop/horizon line, and this time he is right next to me, big smile and green eyes, holding my hand with confidence that I will make the bottom eddy on my own just fine, just like Phil did that day in Ecuador. And as I pull my husband into the watery abyss with me, I am reminded that perhaps it's my turn to read and run. It's my turn to smile and be confident and let him know that I've got this. That it's my turn to sit in the downstream eddy and let him know that the drop is clean, that eventually, there's a pool at the bottom, and that there's a big cooler of ice cold beer at take out. Good news: my husband will still follow me anywhere.