miracles
We launched the kayaks into the Yellow River a few miles from the last tiny map dot in northeast Iowa. On the drive there, we’d passed Rollercoaster Road—undulating gravel as far as the eye could see. We’d also stopped in a one-block town hoping to locate a granola bar or some kind of quick sustenance. A white wood-fronted building had a simple, hopeful sign: Provisions. It was closed but I pressed my forehead against the window just in case. When I turned to walk away, an older man opened the door—friendly smile, eager to help, yes, yes, come in, it’s fine, no worries. I noticed he was wearing a rainbow Pride pin on the front of shirt and. Noticed a framed photo of him embracing an African American man. Was that his partner?
It took less than a minute to peruse the shelves that were neat as a pin: two cans of Campbell’s tomato next to one can of chicken noodle beside a single jar of mayonnaise and a box of tampons. There was nothing that could be eaten on the fly, save for a candy bar, so we thanked him profusely and headed back to the car, my mind full of wonder (and, admittedly, assumptions) about what life was like in such an out of the way locale for a gay man. His presence there seemed nothing short of miraculous.
We found the meetup place—just look for the cars on the side of the road before the bridge, Jake had told us, and though it was early in the day, there were a few cars. Jake, owner of the kayak business along with several other small ventures he told us about, was as pleasant as could be—easy with banter, polite, inquisitive but not nosey. And all of this warmed me to him despite the black t-shirt he wore with a tattered American flag and AK15s on its sleeve. He’d moved up there a few years ago, taking over the family land after his grandfather died; I couldn’t imagine losing the farm.
Jake and the provisioner were thousands of miles away from New York and Brooklyn, but my mind traveled to the comedy show I’d gone to in March in the basement of a bar in Prospect Park. The performer, Deanne, was a trans person—they said they were transitioning not from a woman to a man but to a “little guy.” This was part of their routine—little guy, that’s how they wanted to be referred to. At one point in the show, they showed us photos of their former breasts, portraits taken prior to top surgery in order to please people with their beauty (because I had a really nice rack). In the portraits, the comedian is wearing various large rubber animal head a rooster in one, a sheep in another. They’re inherently absurd.
As absurd as my proximity within a very short period to Jake and Deanne, the latter who had called me up on stage after they liked my response to one of their jokes. (You’re very calm. Are you a therapist?) I could have hugged Jake and did hug Deanne—wanted to hug the Pride-pin wearing provisioner. Wanted to bring them all together next to the Yellow River and watch its water flow by. Wanted us all to just be.
Instead, I pushed my red kayak into the calm river and breathed in the clear beauty of the Iowa morning, listening to red winged black birds trill and mourning doves coo. Watched a small mammal—otter? muskrat? Carry a long green reed in its mouth as it slid across the surface. The water began to speed up, the Mississippi calling it forward. Small rapids emerged, and I rode the first ones with surprising grace. I ended up backwards once, but that was the thing to do—let it take me.
When the fourth or fifth such rough patch appeared, I wasn’t too worried. Hug the shore Jake had recommended, but along the shore was a downed tree and its branches looked hazardous. The current was insistent. I went right into them. My hands reached up instinctively to take hold of the gnarls and save my face from their sharp points. As I did so, my body twisted and the kayak with it. Looking down, I saw the water coming in. My brain was algorithmic in its appraisal. The water was rising, I’d soon be in it. A sort of deep breath of readiness filled me and as I sunk into the water up to my chest. I grabbed the boat, which was insisting on following the current; hold on—my pinpoint focus.
When I finally got the red boat to a sandbar, lugging it with all my strength, my legs hit land, and my brain had more room. Reaching to my back pockets—wallet-phone, no; keys, yes. The brain flipped AI-like through possible outcomes. Gaging the river’s speed and flow and detritus along the banks, I knew the chances of finding it were slim—though miracles, right? Miracles are always possible.
There were miracles that day, but they didn’t include finding my phone and wallet. I met Jake and the provisioner. I was baptized in the cold May water of the Yellow River. I took a nap that afternoon that lasted hours, luscious in its lack of care over the so-called crisis of the debt ceiling or the snarl I’d soon have of replacing my cards and phone. I ate pizza in a little bar with a young hipster looking couple behind me and a Harley couple to the other side. I wanted Deanne to be there, too, pretty sure the little guy would enjoy it.
