{"id":22053,"date":"2012-07-10T13:48:56","date_gmt":"2012-07-10T17:48:56","guid":{"rendered":"https:\/\/www.windturbinesyndrome.com\/static\/static\/?p=22053"},"modified":"2012-07-10T14:00:54","modified_gmt":"2012-07-10T18:00:54","slug":"river-crossing","status":"publish","type":"post","link":"https:\/\/www.windturbinesyndrome.com\/static\/2012\/river-crossing\/","title":{"rendered":"River Crossing"},"content":{"rendered":"

\"\"<\/p>\n

—Calvin Luther Martin, PhD (Spring 1993)<\/p>\n

It was 7:30 or so when we set out for Dark Island the other evening, Roland Slocum and I. \u00a0He was driving a small open-hulled aluminum outboard, and he had thought to bring along some old army blankets knowing we might get wet. \u00a0It had been windy all day—sunny but windy. \u00a0By evening it was still blowing hard out of the southwest. \u00a0Whitecaps in the bay.<\/p>\n

Roland is a kind man. \u00a0Typical of him he had spent the afternoon baking pies for the turkey dinner we were having this evening. \u00a0They were carefully packed away, still hot, in the bow. \u00a0Apple, pumpkin, banana cream.<\/p>\n

Out beyond Rob Roy we began rolling and taking on splash. \u00a0I folded the blanket around my exposed legs and pulled over a nylon shell, yanking my cap down tighter. \u00a0I was facing Roland: a riverman if ever there was one. \u00a0The wind neatly parted his hair down the middle, his old horn-rims flecked with water. \u00a0He worked the rollers like a seasoned dog working the flock. \u00a0No hurry to it. \u00a0He eyed each as it came toward us, giving each special attention—playing each note as it was. \u00a0A virtuoso of waves.<\/p>\n

In the channel, two miles out, he started telling me how he can’t swim (I looked around and noticed no life vests aboard). \u00a0Not a stroke, he said. \u00a0He said he respects the river. \u00a0It’s not like the ocean, which he fears. \u00a0He’s a diver, and has many times climbed down into the canyon beneath the channel we were inching over. \u00a0To visit the monstrous hulls silently entombed there.<\/p>\n

I did not feel uncomfortable with such a man. \u00a0It was strangely calming knowing he had already been to the bottom—the river had already consumed him. \u00a0Working its steely, tossed surface this evening, the two of us in a small gray boat, I felt eternal.<\/p>\n

 <\/p>\n<\/div>","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"

—Calvin Luther Martin, PhD (Spring 1993) It was 7:30 or so when we set out for Dark Island the other evening, Roland Slocum and I. \u00a0He was driving a small open-hulled aluminum outboard, and he had thought to bring along some old army blankets knowing we might get wet. \u00a0It had been windy all day—sunny but windy. \u00a0By evening it was still blowing hard out of the southwest. \u00a0Whitecaps in the bay. Roland is a kind man. \u00a0Typical of him he had spent the afternoon baking pies for the turkey dinner we were having this evening. \u00a0They were carefully packed away, still hot, in the bow. \u00a0Apple, pumpkin, banana cream. Out beyond Rob Roy we began rolling and taking on splash. \u00a0I folded the blanket around my exposed legs and pulled over a nylon shell, yanking my cap down tighter. \u00a0I was facing Roland: a riverman if ever there was one. \u00a0The wind neatly parted his hair down the middle, his old horn-rims flecked with water. \u00a0He worked the rollers like a seasoned dog working the flock. \u00a0No hurry to it. \u00a0He eyed each as it came toward us, giving each special attention—playing each note as it was. \u00a0A virtuoso of waves. In the channel, two miles out, he started telling me how he can’t swim (I looked around and noticed no life vests aboard). \u00a0Not a stroke, he said. \u00a0He said he respects the river. \u00a0It’s not like the ocean, which he fears. \u00a0He’s a diver, and has many times climbed down into the canyon beneath the channel we were inching over. \u00a0To visit the monstrous hulls silently entombed there. I did not feel uncomfortable with such a man. \u00a0It was strangely calming knowing he had already been to the bottom—the river had already consumed him. \u00a0Working its steely,Read More…<\/a><\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":3,"featured_media":0,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":[],"categories":[157,175],"tags":[],"_links":{"self":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.windturbinesyndrome.com\/static\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/22053"}],"collection":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.windturbinesyndrome.com\/static\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts"}],"about":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.windturbinesyndrome.com\/static\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/types\/post"}],"author":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.windturbinesyndrome.com\/static\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/users\/3"}],"replies":[{"embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.windturbinesyndrome.com\/static\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/comments?post=22053"}],"version-history":[{"count":0,"href":"https:\/\/www.windturbinesyndrome.com\/static\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/posts\/22053\/revisions"}],"wp:attachment":[{"href":"https:\/\/www.windturbinesyndrome.com\/static\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/media?parent=22053"}],"wp:term":[{"taxonomy":"category","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.windturbinesyndrome.com\/static\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/categories?post=22053"},{"taxonomy":"post_tag","embeddable":true,"href":"https:\/\/www.windturbinesyndrome.com\/static\/wp-json\/wp\/v2\/tags?post=22053"}],"curies":[{"name":"wp","href":"https:\/\/api.w.org\/{rel}","templated":true}]}}