SINK THAT FUCKING BOAT

I'm standing on the shore of Shaver Lake, California, high in the Sierra Nevada. It's the last full day of Camp Chawanakee. I'm 14 years old, surrounded by hundreds of fellow Boy Scouts, watching my troop lose, by a lot, in a row boat race. The boats are these metal row boats we all use to get our rowing merit badge, and can also check out during camp to head out to Thunderbird Island. There are about ten boats in the water. The race is to row out with a crew of four to a buoy in the lake, circle it, and come back. My buddy Jay is in the boat. He's two years younger than me, but my best friend. We met on a kayak trip, discovered a mutual love of the Stones, the Kinks, and other stalwarts of what is now called classic rock but was to us back then simply music we dug. Jay is the funniest kid I have ever met. And always does shit you would not expect. He looks like a miniature businessman to me most of the time. Short hair, horn-rimmed glasses, a resting face that looks like he is considering the stock market. But he is the antithesis of that. He is the kid who will convince you to sneak out at night and toilet paper someone's house. To sneak a beer out of the parent's fridge. And the entire time, you laugh your ass off as you do something that will for sure get you in trouble. For instance, once, while we were hanging out at his folks place, he thought it would be fun for us to take his dad's Cherokee Chief out for a spin. He was 12, so of course he drove. How we didn't get noticed and pulled over is still a mystery to me, but a lot of the grown-up world seemed crazy then, and still does to this day, so it wasn't all that nuts. When we finally returned to his house, his father was waiting for us in the garage. And we lived to tell the tale.

So there I am, on the shore, watching Troop 339, the pride of the Pioneer District, getting lapped by several other boats. 

And I see Jay look over at the boat in the lead.

And I know exactly what he is planning to do. 

Because when you're tight with someone, that's how it goes.

Jay puts down his oar, stands up, and leaps out of the boat, swims to the winning boat, grabs the side, and manages to flip it over. The scouts in the boat leap out, into the water, and the winning boat is now upside down. 

Everyone in the race is able to swim, and are all wearing life jackets, so we are fairly certain no one is going to die. 

There is a moment of silence, and then the entire crowd roars with laughter. It's just too funny not to. I don't know why. Maybe it's because something about the look on Jay's face makes it clear he isn't a sore loser, he is just not having it anymore. He sees the ridiculousness of his situation and has decided to change it. 

The kids from the now upside down boat swim over to Jay's boat and flip it over.

In an instant, everyone in the race is out of their boat, flipping other boats over and howling with joy.

I have this image burned in my brain of Jay standing on the back of the boat he flipped as it sinks into Shaver Lake's murky depths. His hands are raised over his head, and he is, for that moment, a God of Chaos here on Earth.

And we lived to tell that tale too. It probably helped that the lake wasn't too deep where the race took place, and all boats were retrieved. 

Some shit you just can't make up.

So now, it's here. Today. And Jay is fighting another ridiculous situation. One involving cancer. And I want him to leap out of his boat and swim and sink that fucking boat. 

If there is anyone in this universe who can do that, it's Jay. 

Here's a song. It's Jumping Jack Flash by The Stones.

FEEDING MY SOUL

Tired today. Went to sleep early, woke up a few times starting around 4am, and feel pooped. Took my temperature, and it's normal. But of course, the mind races and you wonder.  What would happen if I had it? Would it be like my friend, who indeed did have it but was told to stay home until it got really bad, and somehow made it through? He looked like ass for about a week, have trouble breathing, fever, and all that, but made it through and is now on the mend. We played D&D the other night, killed a bunch of orcs, and all seemed well. So that we cool. But every case is different, or so they say. For most, it's supposed to be mild. For some, deadly. I know life is uncertain, and nothing is permanent besides impermanence, but holy shit, it's a weird world. Anyhow, I'm up, coffee is on, dog has been let out, and I am blogging. This has become the one mainstay. I get up, let out the dog, put on the coffee, and write. I highly recommend it. I have kept a journal for most ofmy life, going back to high school, and every day I write in it is a good day, because I let out some of those half formed thoughts that if left in my brain do not go quietly into that deep night. No, the unexpressed thoughts I think fester, cloud the system, and become one of a long line of "what ever happened to that idea I had"s.  So I write as often as I can. Things with journaling really kicked in when I first read The Artist's Way. Before that, I would be a sporadic journal writer. I'd write every day for a period of time, then go for months without an entry. In the Artist's Way, they call writing in a journal doing your "morning pages", and the author made the point that all you really have to do is get up half an hour earlier than normal and just write whatever pops into your mind. I gave it a shot, it stuck, and here I am.

So, went into a Safeway for the first time in what seems like a year yesterday. It was eerie. The energy was muted, everyone kept their distance, and it was oh so quiet. Made me think of the movie The Mist. For the most part, shelves were stacked, though there were a few prominent empty patches in the produce section. As I rolled the cart around, if I came upon another shopper we'd both stop, make sure of our distance, nod and smile, and move on. We had already hit two other stores, and I had just left Lisa in the line at Trader Joe's, where they were monitoring how many people could go in, so as not to have it too crowded. People were waiting outside, evenly spaced, for their turn. 

And last night, I taught a few classes online. An acting for film class, and a rehearsal for School of Rock. Young people never cease to amaze me. So here and now, so in the moment. In the acting class, we worked on monologues. It was a small class, 3 kids, and went for an hour and a half. Then I had a two hour rehearsal with 24 kids. Yikes. But both sets were amazing, and there is something about focusing on other people, trying to help them figure things out, that energizes me, and keeps me going. It was hard to rehearse, to be sure, but the simple fact of being together, recognizing we are all going a little stir crazy, that we are not along, was a shot in the arm, and needed.

Other than shopping and teaching, I continue to write down memory after memory for a possible screenplay based on my early life. And out of nowhere, one of my oldest friends sends me a text this morning all about a memory he had  today of when we did the Mile Swim at Camp Chawanakee, a rite of passage where, around age 13 or so, you get up before the dawn, make your way to the shores of Shaver Lake high in the Sierra Nevada, and swim for a mile. I can see it clear in my mind's eye- the lake seeming to steam as the rays of the rising sun hit it, our voices carrying across the lake as we laughed and swam, the metal row boat in front of us with a camp counselor in it to make sure we didn't drown, passing Thunderbird Island, which was the mid-point, making it back to the shore, and the great sense of pride as we walked back to our campsite.

I find writing things down about the past easy right now. Of course, putting all these memories into a story is another thing entirely, and I haven't a clue as to how that will work out. But for the moment, it feeds my soul, like this blog does, and like teaching does. And that will suffice.

Here's a song.

https://youtu.be/3PZSpmAKxVY