I went canoeing. With some friends on a Sunday morning. Park hours are 5:00AM-8:30PM paralleling the sunlight hours, and my grandparents' hours too in their Hakah home. We got there quite early, to catch the sunrise. There were no sounds on the trail except our footsteps, the boat scrapping the ground slightly, our breathing, birds in the air in the trees, and fish rippling the water for the occasional surface. I suppose what I mean by "no sounds" is ....
We didn't talk. The oak hammocks and sprays of hanging Spanish moss silent, shadow guard the well-worn dirt trail. We were heading for the waters. I remembered last time I was there: summer 2009, nearly two years ago, my first summer in college, in Lakeland, and the fish stank. An old man fishing at one of the pavilions explained to me, if I recall correctly, that the water level changed (lowered) and the fish who died were left dead on the shore. There were rows upon rows, in a dazzling geometric tessellation, scales glistening in the sun, and exuding profuse stench. It lingered in my memory, as they say scent does, perhaps even as strong as the perspiration-infused fragrance of a young man I once loved. Natural, unassuming, and deeply earth-bound.
Suddenly I thought what it would be like to have him there in the woods, walking next to me, steps and breaths syncopating, in Circle B, Florida--Spanish moss and alligator. He told me once that when he was young, in the Hakah country, he lived on his own, sort of like Huck Finn. With a buddy, they'd go swimming, naked of course, in the lakes, but there were no alligators of course. On the day of Magpies, a traditionally auspicious day for swimming and also the Chinese version of Valentine's day, instead of spending time with me, he went with his buddy to the town's nearby lake. He almost drowned. But I didn't think he'd be opposed to canoeing.
Anyways, I didn't have much time to think more about him, as we pushed the canoe into the waters of Hancock, gingerly balanced the three persons plus Bibles. We left behind the bald eagles. As we went further from shore, the sky grew paler, the waters began to serenade us (where were we in the 1,267 acres?), perhaps an incantation for birthing the sun. When it broke, the light was... just there. We read scriptures on death. Buried in the earth, why is it then that water whirls in our psyche and in our blood?
We didn't talk. The oak hammocks and sprays of hanging Spanish moss silent, shadow guard the well-worn dirt trail. We were heading for the waters. I remembered last time I was there: summer 2009, nearly two years ago, my first summer in college, in Lakeland, and the fish stank. An old man fishing at one of the pavilions explained to me, if I recall correctly, that the water level changed (lowered) and the fish who died were left dead on the shore. There were rows upon rows, in a dazzling geometric tessellation, scales glistening in the sun, and exuding profuse stench. It lingered in my memory, as they say scent does, perhaps even as strong as the perspiration-infused fragrance of a young man I once loved. Natural, unassuming, and deeply earth-bound.
Suddenly I thought what it would be like to have him there in the woods, walking next to me, steps and breaths syncopating, in Circle B, Florida--Spanish moss and alligator. He told me once that when he was young, in the Hakah country, he lived on his own, sort of like Huck Finn. With a buddy, they'd go swimming, naked of course, in the lakes, but there were no alligators of course. On the day of Magpies, a traditionally auspicious day for swimming and also the Chinese version of Valentine's day, instead of spending time with me, he went with his buddy to the town's nearby lake. He almost drowned. But I didn't think he'd be opposed to canoeing.
Anyways, I didn't have much time to think more about him, as we pushed the canoe into the waters of Hancock, gingerly balanced the three persons plus Bibles. We left behind the bald eagles. As we went further from shore, the sky grew paler, the waters began to serenade us (where were we in the 1,267 acres?), perhaps an incantation for birthing the sun. When it broke, the light was... just there. We read scriptures on death. Buried in the earth, why is it then that water whirls in our psyche and in our blood?
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