Islands in a Scream

I went scouting for a good swimming spot today. It’s going to require crossing a most fickle and tempestuous part of the lake but, after only an hour, I found the perfect spot.  It’s a tiny island with an easy access landing spot and rocks like perfectly contoured armchairs in the sun. There are two of these rocks but that’s not what reminded me of you. What reminded me of you were the otter droppings.

We fought about the canoe rental. We fought about the tent (“Fine,” you yelled, “bring the tent but I’m not sleeping in it!”) We fought about the food and, by the time we left the city, it was dark. We fought about that too, as we drove through the night. In the morning we woke up in the van, made up for all of yesterday’s fighting, then began packing in the gear to the lake.


Soon we were fighting about the map. We fought about the best way to carry the load. We realized we wouldn’t survive the trip without wine. We drove twenty minutes back to a campground liquor store. We fought about how much wine we needed. We went back to the parking lot and hiked the last load of gear, including half a dozen bottles of wine, across the portage. It was late afternoon when our paddles finally touched water and it took only a few strokes before waves threatened to breech the bow . The lake seemed as angry as we were.

After an hour of paddling groups of islands began to appear, then disappear behind us as you rejected each one.

“No good shelter,” you said of this one. “No good landing,” of the next. “There’s people right over there,” you said of still another.

Two hours of paddling was turning into three –the water still tossing our aluminum vessel about like a toy in a tub- before I caved and we fought again.

“Pick one already! If we’re not unpacking this canoe in twenty minutes I’m not paddling anymore!”

The next one was rejected too, no doubt on principle, but the one after, already fairly close to another  shore, was finally approved.

We fought about where to pitch the tent.

(“What difference does it make? You’re not sleeping in it anyway!”

“Fine! I’m going to get wood.”)

With the fire finally built, dinner cooking and the first bottle of wine opened civility set in.  By the second we were laughing and kissing and it didn’t matter that dinner was taking too long to cook. Just before the last light of day was gone,  the Otter poked his head out of the water. We tossed him some scraps. He raised a flipper in thanks and disappeared.

After dinner you reached for a third bottle of wine. We fought. I went to bed. It was dawn when you joined me in the tent. We said good morning like lovers should and waited til the heat in the tent was insufferable to part our embrace and make breakfast. There were six empty wine bottles strewn beside the remnants of last night’s fire. We fought. You went fishing.

 In the heat of an isolated island, clothes seemed superfluous so I took mine off and lay on the rocks inviting the sun’s caress. When you finally returned- with a bouquet of wildflowers not fish- your envy drove you to make shade.

Afterwards we started to make a fire for dinner but a blanket of grey spread across the sky as the sun began to set. I stood naked in the chilling rain that followed -my nipples quickly hard, my flesh pimpled- watching the water seem to rise from the lake in the brewing storm. You told me you loved me so much it hurt. I said, “That’s not love, that’s your hangover.” Laughing, you picked me up, tossed me over your shoulder and into the tent just before the first thunder clap assaulted the air.

The storm rumbled and boomed and lit up the sky all night long.

“Did you hear that?” You asked, waking me.

“It’s a storm,” I answered, shifting to bury my face in your chest.

“I think it’s a bear.” This is the only moment in the two years we were together I could recall you being afraid so I tried not to laugh. I kissed you instead. We fell back to dreaming, as if finally understanding the futility of struggling against the inevitable; like bear attacks.

Later I woke you. “Your feet,” I mumbled, turning away in disgust, “why are they so cold and wet.” This an accusation rather than a question.

“You’re not touching my feet.”

Awake now, eyes wide in the dark and then a lightning flash and I see the door is partially unzipped and a black face. Or was it a black nose?

“Whaaa!” No, wait, it was definitely a whole face.

“What?” You asked.

“Agh, nothing, I think it’s just the otter trying to get in.”

“What do you mean, you think?” I could feel you tense up beside me.

“I mean for a minute I thought maybe it was a nose but...”

“Like a bear nose? ”

“Yes, only it’s not. Not a bear nose at all.”

“How do you know?”

“Because a bear nose would exhale warm air. A bear nose would have taken up a lot more of the door...”

“I told you you should have let me bring a dog for bear bait...”

“Please, don’t start that again...”

Another lightning strike.

“Anyway, it’s gone,” I said, trying to be reassuring as I zipped the door.

In the morning there was fresh otter scatt outside our tent door and Otter and his mate were playing on our island’s shoreline. He barked and waved as if to introduce us to his love and she dove into the lake as though shy but then turned to shake her flipper at us when she resurfaced. Watching them, I wanted to tell you I love you so much it’s the only thing I think about. Ever.

But I didn’t. It was time to decamp. We fought about your fishing tackle.