The North River

The locals used to say that when you float down the north river, the sea spirits would judge your soul. That if you were a good lad, built a solid foundation, a life of marble and jewels, you’d get to the spit that appeared at the mouth of the river. If you were twisted, a lost soul with a few too many screws loose, then you’d breeze by the last strip of land, and be swept out to sea. And as the water engulfs your view, all you’d be able to think of was how your life was another damned voyage.

As a kid you’d hear that and think, “Damn the dumb harborman, I got nothin’ to worry ’bout! For everything is clear as be.” You believed it, and really felt that, after all how could you not? When your hands are the size of pebbles, and your hair sun-bleached from day-long beach bumming — you couldn’t think of anything but bliss. Your world was atop a golden plate, served by the finest destinies that fate could offer. It was sealed with God’s word and spoonfed down your throat.

It was just all so simple. So colorful and expansive, like a rainbow that never ends.

I had my feet covered in sand, with the water up to my ankles. A few crabs tried to say hello, but I showed the strength of an unseen paddle. I had lugged the damn thing across the parking lot and down the driftway. I’d done it a thousand times, back before my back clicked, and the scars across my legs were still unmade bad decisions.

I used to have a green one. I missed the green one, for this one was red and top-heavy. Not the kind of kayak with a hole you sink into, but one you rest atop like an uncomfortable steel chair without a seat cushion.

I moaned as I sat in it, shaking the damn thing all over. A bit of water splashed up and soaked my shorts. I held my oar in my right hand, and put my life jacket behind my back with the left. I know the harbormaster, so if he yells at me, I’ll tell him I stopped to piss and didn’t want to look like a floating buoy. A family was backing their trailer up, and I was now in traffic, didn’t want to be seen, but couldn’t run from that. The kids were already on the rocks staring at me. Their dad manned his way toward the water.

“Hey, you’re that actor! Moss, yeah I know you!” a boy hollered.

“You’re famous! What are you up to?”

“Paddling,” I uttered.

The dad got out of the vehicle and shushed his boys away.

“Leave the poor man alone,” he said. “He’s got enough of being noticed, let a man be on the river.”

I tilted my hat toward him and he smiled. I bet it was the first time a “celebrity” acknowledged him. He was bright red with validation — how I hate being on a pedestal.

I battled through the wake of a damn party barge, too drunk to notice a kayak in the river. That or they didn’t care. I liked them, for they saw me as I was. Just some litter on the water.

I had a system for when I paddled. I’d sprint left, right, left, right, then glide until I felt my weight again. I’d do this for stretches of a hundred meters or so, then I’d wash down my heavy breathing with a bit of Daniels I’d kept in my flask. Funny, I’ve noticed as I get older, I like the shitty liquors better. They burn more and remind me of nicking bottles from my parents’ cabinet.

God, how stupid were we to think they wouldn’t notice.

The nice thing about the north river is that for most of the year it’s unknown, untouched, and uncared for, except for those who either fish or get lost. Being late August, it was shit on a fan. For three months it’s consistent hell, full of prepubescent drinking, firework artillery, and midlife dick swingers, who compare more than just the size of their boats. But it was home, much more than the smog-stained suntans I’d get in LA.

It’s interesting how you come home after so many years chasing some star, some spotlight, that you forget your home grows just as you do. I see a small shack selling oysters and gasoline pressed right on the marsh. Must’ve been old, for the paint on the wood was chipping, but not old enough to come from my memory of this place.

A boy waved to me from a passing barge, and I looked the other way. He whispered something to his mom, who flashed a picture. I wonder why I ever thought fame was a good idea. I think of that irresponsible blonde boy who’d slide along the mud, diving from the marsh into the water. He just wanted to perform, make a living playing. God, what a drug to get hooked to.

A speedboat raced down the marsh in slalom. He was a Vineyard Vines and Amex type of character, so I wasn’t surprised at the wall of water his wake shot up. I cursed a great deal, for a douche canoe like him should hear it — even though he won’t listen. I sound like my father now.

The waves were enough to knock me off my kayak, and with a bit of booze in my belly, the cold water was warm enough to feel alright. I could feel the current was pushing me outward, a low tide was coming, and I thought back to those old stories the harbormen used to tell us. I let go of my kayak and drifted on my back in the water. Time to find out the truth, I thought, as the water swept me out to sea.