Thursday, February 3, 2011

Moving On

 "With my maps on the table you see
I have lost many things
So many, I won't turn back."
-"I Love, I Love (Traveling II)", Dar Williams

Zack doesn't look at me, just stares off at the distant horizon and says evenly, "I. was. so. worried. about you."

"Really? But you were the one who told me no one's ever not come back." I glance at the sign board behind him that reads: "Zack's Adventure Shack". The motto scrawled beneath it promises, "Getting lost is our specialty." I can't accuse him of false advertising.

He looks at me and shakes his head. "Yes, really. It was so windy the day you left, and the waves... I was just about to close and go hire a boat to go looking for you." He doesn't raise his voice, or change his tone, he is still speaking in that slow, cool way of his, but he manages to convey, clearly, that he is not happy with me for making him worry.

"Oh, Zack, I'm sorry," and I genuinely mean it. "To make you worry, and to lose your hat, and about the paddle." At this I find myself stifling a smile and trying not to laugh. I really am a most ridiculous creature, convincing myself I am fiercely independent when, in truth, my haplessness so often leaves me at the mercy of strangers.

"The hat," he says, seeming to forgive me, "was mine. You don't worry about that. The paddle though," he continues worriedly picking up a catalog and thumbing through it, "is not. I just hope it's not expensive." Of course it is ridiculously expensive, practically doubling the expense of my entire Thailand trip. He catches me eyeing his crudely stitched scalp as I hand him the money.


"Like Frankenstein," he says, pointing to his head.

"What happened?"

"I got drunk and fell down the stairs," he says sheepishly.

"Oooch, that must have been some fall," I say laughing.

"It was. Won't happen again. I've quit drinking."

"Well, that seems a little extreme. You should try giving up stairs first before immediately blaming the drink."

He smiles but says, "Nah. I mean, I might drink a little to celebrate, you know, New Years or something but no more getting drunk."

"Whatever works for you," I shrug then change the subject. "After all the trouble I've caused I really hate to ask, but can I possibly use your washroom? I really need to shower." As much as I love outdoor showers, I simply didn't feel safe using the one at the resort this morning.

"Sure," he says. "But it's messy. It's a boy bathroom, you know," he grins as he says this last part.

I grin back, "I'm sure it'll be fine."

He follows me to the back of the shack and while I rifle through my backpack for clean clothes he talks, pretending to tidy up.

"There's soap in the shower. It was my wife's but you can use it. She left it here after the divorce." And so he begins to unwind the story, an all too familiar story, about the woman he loved but can't be with because all they'd do is fight. It only takes me two minutes to get my things together, but it takes him almost fifteen to finish telling me their story. I can tell he needs to share, he needs an audience, a witness to this tragedy so I take a seat on top of my pack and listen, watching him pace the room, picking up objects, moving them, moving something else then shuffling everything back to their original places.

As I listen, I can't help but think that, possibly, more than he needs to tell it, I need to hear it. To know that love has not been uniquely cruel to me; that I am not the only one who suffers from a heart that wants what it cannot, should not, have; a reminder that in this world, this very second there are a thousand hearts risking everything and a thousand more breaking after the fall.

"So I guess," he finally concludes, turning to look at me now, "I just have to try and move on, find me a new woman to love." He laughs self-consciously.

I smile at him. "Yeah. I guess you do. And, I have no doubt Zack, that you will." I gather up my things and walk through the curtain that serves as the bathroom door. Far from being messy, the bathroom floor is covered in smooth beach stones and shells with petrified fossils and starfish scattered about. The shower hose hangs on a beautiful piece of driftwood under an open sky. The facilities may be humble but all that nature makes it feel luxurious.

"Better?" He asks when I emerge.

"Much." I smile gratefully. "Thank you."

"No problem. So I have to go to the pier to pick up my brother. Wait here okay?"

"Do you? Actually, can I get a ride there with you? I need to catch the ferry."

"Are you in a hurry? Why do you have to leave? Stay a for a bit."

"I would love to, I really would, but I have a beach shack reserved for tonight on the mainland, and I have to go back to the Old Town to pick up my passport that I forgot at my hostel. That's going to add at least another two hours to my day. I really have to get going."

"You lost your passport too?" He asks incredulous.

"It's not lost," I protest, "it's forgotten. I forgot it that's all. And, more importantly," I continue defensively, more to convince myself than him, "I remembered that I'd forgotten it before I needed to cross any borders, so it could be worse."

Zack just smiles and shakes his head. "Okay. If you have to go, you have to go. I'll be right back."

He returns driving a Honda mini bike with a wooden side car. I toss my pack into the car and perch myself on the metal railing.

"I like to go fast," he warns with a nod to my precarious seat.

"So do I," I answer with an unflinching shrug.

"Canadian girls," he mumbles, before shifting into drive, "awesome." When we reach the edge of the village he lets the throttle out and we practically fly down the winding road. The bike tops out near 180, which I'm impressed by considering the load, and we whoop, holler, yell and laugh our way to the pier.

"Next time I'll take you rock climbing," Zack says, handing me my pack once we've stopped at the end of the pier.

"We'll see," I say but when that pervasive sadness creeps back onto his face I add by way of explanation, "I'm afraid of heights."

I thank him for the ride, and everything, and start to walk away. His brother isn't there and Zack's already climbing back onto the bike when I turn around. "Hey Zack," I call back.

"Yeah?"

"Be careful on the stairs."

"It's the alcohol, not the stairs," he calls back, laughing.

"You just keep telling yourself that," I answer turning and waving as I walk away.

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