The Big Duck
By mid-trip I still have not heard, “I’m bored,” though I have heard, “It’s not fair,” from Gabe.
Day three we run most of the biggest rapids on the river including Big Mallard, the one
everyone talks about, with a huge keeper hole at the bottom. A keeper is a circulating wave
that can keep a boat…or a child. For much of the trip the boys have paddled the inflatable
kayaks for one, called "duckys." But it's a no-brainer to keep the boys in the bigger paddle
boat. Les, put it kindly, “It’s not their skill level, it’s their weight. They’ll pop out.”
A high school girl named Keats further confirmed that decision. She took the ducky, clipped the
edge of the hole and swam the bottom of the rapid, giving us all a scare. Gabe doesn't see it the
same way. On the beach just below Mallard, I have a mopey eleven year old on my hands.
“Keats was ok and she hit the hole,” Gabe says. He doesn't claim he'd stay in the boat, I
notice, only that Keats didn’t perish after she fell out, which is apparently adequate proof of the
injustice. He goes on a hunger strike, refusing to come up off the water’s edge for tuna wraps.
Instead he sits on a boulder, still clad in helmet and blue life vest, and gazes into churning belly
of the one that got away.
The guides powwow. Les says, now that Mallard’s over, Gabe can probably manage the next
few rapids. “He may swim, but he probably won’t have a bad swim,” he clarifies. Now I’m in
one of those mom dilemmas, not wanting Gabe to think sulking will get him his way. He has so
many rivers in front of him, I think. Next summer he will be twelve, and in no time at all he will
be bigger than me and capable of taking on all the rapids he wants. Then I remember how it is
when you're eleven. How interminably long the road to next year is when you are in sixth grade.
The only summer that exists for an eleven-year-old is the one happening now, and Gabe has
been spending it watching his chance to take on big water, rush on by.
“Alright,” I tell him, “You’re Captain Ducky.” He grins. We trudge up the beach to the lunch
table, where the guides tell him he better fuel up if he’s going to power through Elkhorn and
Growler. He reaches for the can of Pringles, eats a half a sandwich and cake leftover from last
night’s Dutch oven.
All afternoon Gabe paddles towards waves he thinks he can ride and away from those that will
flip him. Sometimes he chooses wrong. A wave pours into his boat on the first section of
Elkhorn and he tumbles into the current. But he climbs back in determined and alert.
And this is what a river teaches, I think, to choose your course, to stay awake.
By mid-trip I still have not heard, “I’m bored,” though I have heard, “It’s not fair,” from Gabe.
Day three we run most of the biggest rapids on the river including Big Mallard, the one
everyone talks about, with a huge keeper hole at the bottom. A keeper is a circulating wave
that can keep a boat…or a child. For much of the trip the boys have paddled the inflatable
kayaks for one, called "duckys." But it's a no-brainer to keep the boys in the bigger paddle
boat. Les, put it kindly, “It’s not their skill level, it’s their weight. They’ll pop out.”
A high school girl named Keats further confirmed that decision. She took the ducky, clipped the
edge of the hole and swam the bottom of the rapid, giving us all a scare. Gabe doesn't see it the
same way. On the beach just below Mallard, I have a mopey eleven year old on my hands.
“Keats was ok and she hit the hole,” Gabe says. He doesn't claim he'd stay in the boat, I
notice, only that Keats didn’t perish after she fell out, which is apparently adequate proof of the
injustice. He goes on a hunger strike, refusing to come up off the water’s edge for tuna wraps.
Instead he sits on a boulder, still clad in helmet and blue life vest, and gazes into churning belly
of the one that got away.
The guides powwow. Les says, now that Mallard’s over, Gabe can probably manage the next
few rapids. “He may swim, but he probably won’t have a bad swim,” he clarifies. Now I’m in
one of those mom dilemmas, not wanting Gabe to think sulking will get him his way. He has so
many rivers in front of him, I think. Next summer he will be twelve, and in no time at all he will
be bigger than me and capable of taking on all the rapids he wants. Then I remember how it is
when you're eleven. How interminably long the road to next year is when you are in sixth grade.
The only summer that exists for an eleven-year-old is the one happening now, and Gabe has
been spending it watching his chance to take on big water, rush on by.
“Alright,” I tell him, “You’re Captain Ducky.” He grins. We trudge up the beach to the lunch
table, where the guides tell him he better fuel up if he’s going to power through Elkhorn and
Growler. He reaches for the can of Pringles, eats a half a sandwich and cake leftover from last
night’s Dutch oven.
All afternoon Gabe paddles towards waves he thinks he can ride and away from those that will
flip him. Sometimes he chooses wrong. A wave pours into his boat on the first section of
Elkhorn and he tumbles into the current. But he climbs back in determined and alert.
And this is what a river teaches, I think, to choose your course, to stay awake.
The Big Duck
By mid-trip I still have not heard, “I’m bored,” though I have heard, “It’s not fair,” from Gabe. Day three
we run most of the biggest rapids on the river including Big Mallard, the one everyone talks about, with a
huge keeper hole at the bottom. A keeper is a circulating wave that can keep a boat…or a child. For much
of the trip the boys have paddled the inflatable kayaks for one, called "duckys." But it's a no-brainer to
keep the boys in the bigger paddle boat. Les, put it kindly, “It’s not their skill level, it’s their weight. They’ll
pop out.”
A high school girl named Keats further confirmed that decision. She took the ducky, clipped the edge of
the hole and swam the bottom of the rapid, giving us all a scare. Gabe doesn't see it the same way. On the
beach just below Mallard, I have a mopey eleven year old on my hands. “Keats was ok and she hit the
hole,” Gabe says. He doesn't claim he'd stay in the boat, I notice, only that Keats didn’t perish after she fell
out, which is apparently adequate proof of the injustice. He goes on a hunger strike, refusing to come up off
the water’s edge for tuna wraps. Instead he sits on a boulder, still clad in helmet and blue life vest, and
gazes into churning belly of the one that got away.
The guides powwow. Les says, now that Mallard’s over, Gabe can probably manage the next few rapids.
“He may swim, but he probably won’t have a bad swim,” he clarifies. Now I’m in one of those mom
dilemmas, not wanting Gabe to think sulking will get him his way. He has so many rivers in front of him, I
think. Next summer he will be twelve, and in no time at all he will be bigger than me and capable of taking
on all the rapids he wants. Then I remember how it is when you're eleven. How interminably long the road
to next year is when you are in sixth grade. The only summer that exists for an eleven-year-old is the one
happening now, and Gabe has been spending it watching his chance to take on big water, rush on by.
“Alright,” I tell him, “You’re Captain Ducky.” He grins. We trudge up the beach to the lunch table, where
the guides tell him he better fuel up if he’s going to power through Elkhorn and Growler. He reaches for the
can of Pringles, eats a half a sandwich and cake leftover from last night’s Dutch oven.
By mid-trip I still have not heard, “I’m bored,” though I have heard, “It’s not fair,” from Gabe. Day three
we run most of the biggest rapids on the river including Big Mallard, the one everyone talks about, with a
huge keeper hole at the bottom. A keeper is a circulating wave that can keep a boat…or a child. For much
of the trip the boys have paddled the inflatable kayaks for one, called "duckys." But it's a no-brainer to
keep the boys in the bigger paddle boat. Les, put it kindly, “It’s not their skill level, it’s their weight. They’ll
pop out.”
A high school girl named Keats further confirmed that decision. She took the ducky, clipped the edge of
the hole and swam the bottom of the rapid, giving us all a scare. Gabe doesn't see it the same way. On the
beach just below Mallard, I have a mopey eleven year old on my hands. “Keats was ok and she hit the
hole,” Gabe says. He doesn't claim he'd stay in the boat, I notice, only that Keats didn’t perish after she fell
out, which is apparently adequate proof of the injustice. He goes on a hunger strike, refusing to come up off
the water’s edge for tuna wraps. Instead he sits on a boulder, still clad in helmet and blue life vest, and
gazes into churning belly of the one that got away.
The guides powwow. Les says, now that Mallard’s over, Gabe can probably manage the next few rapids.
“He may swim, but he probably won’t have a bad swim,” he clarifies. Now I’m in one of those mom
dilemmas, not wanting Gabe to think sulking will get him his way. He has so many rivers in front of him, I
think. Next summer he will be twelve, and in no time at all he will be bigger than me and capable of taking
on all the rapids he wants. Then I remember how it is when you're eleven. How interminably long the road
to next year is when you are in sixth grade. The only summer that exists for an eleven-year-old is the one
happening now, and Gabe has been spending it watching his chance to take on big water, rush on by.
“Alright,” I tell him, “You’re Captain Ducky.” He grins. We trudge up the beach to the lunch table, where
the guides tell him he better fuel up if he’s going to power through Elkhorn and Growler. He reaches for the
can of Pringles, eats a half a sandwich and cake leftover from last night’s Dutch oven.
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