sitting in the middle

in the middle

if a painter were to paint the scene, only a few colors and a few strokes would be needed, and he or she would paint from bottom to top: grey-black; a thin line of puffy white for the trascient, morning fog; a strip of green-brown; then a strip of grey-blue. the first and last colors would extend towards the men in a seemingly infinite expanse. of course there would be a softness to the colors. maybe a tinge of pink from the east. there wasn´t much to see, but one had the sense of seeing beyond and yet wondering what was still beyond. one was left with the blank canvas of sound. as they distanced themselves from the river´s edge, they no longer heard the howl of the monkeys; no longer could respond to that bird´s call that rings through the trees like a skip up stairs.

they rowed. the youth, on the right side. the old man, on the left. for every two rotations that the youth made, the old man made one. the youth had firm movements that propelled them ahead with an end in mind: to the town with a road. the old man rowed with his rythym of years. there was no hurry in his movements, but neither could one call it precision. he wasn´t a technician, nor did he have the eye of an athlete. one could call it efficiency, but that would allude to the management of resources to arrive at a desired end, and the old man did not move with a wish to arrive anywhere. sure, he moved toward the town with a road, but it could have been the town across the river or down the river. It could have been yesterday or tomorrow.

the old man knew that the young man would slow down, eventually. he smiled, a little, thinking about the days he too rowed with a bit of a rush. that was when he desired something; something even farther than the town with a road. he remembered enough to smile, and that was enough.

they rowed in silence while the morning woke around them, when a sound from the youth´s backpack broke through the calm causing the muscles of the young man to tighten. A sound. A tone, that could be mistaken for a bird, thought the youth nervously. The sound continued in a repetitive ring and he felt the pull forward to the bag, but the presence of the old man held him back. He sat in the middle. He struggled in the double strain of not being able to answer the sound and of not being being able to escape the eyes on his back. If he were alone, he could have let the paddle fall to his side, opened the backpack, and rescued the call from abandonment. He could have laid back in the canoa and simply floated, while he talked and sat alone. However, eyes were watching him, and he couldn´t move so naturally.

but, the old man wasn´t watching. his eyes stayed fixed on the ondulating horizon, observing the early waves of the yachts and speed boats. every once in a while, he would wave his hand to the men with motors and to the others who rowed and rocked like them. all moving closer to their destinations, all moving away from the morning.

the youth, also waved to the other water travelers, though a bit distracted. he wasn´t embarrassed in his little wooden vessel next to the boats with machines, some with kitchens and bedrooms and living rooms and refrigerators and televisions. he still had his pride, especially for his strength. true, he wanted to arrive sooner than his own arms could take him, but he enjoyed too much the privilge of mocking the bellies of the men with motors.

when they began to see the outlines of the town with a road, they were hearing without hearing the constant vibration of metal and cable and cumbustion of the motors that do not pause like the chirps or caws or screeches or whistles of the forest. the thin puffy line of fog was replaced with the white hauls and steeples of marinas, with the grey blocks of buildings taller than trees.

when they could distinguish one dock from another, the backpack called again. the young man began to row faster. he no longer waved to the other men. he only saw the dock in front of him. he only saw the pulse of the ring, and the piercing of the eyes on his back. he would not, could not, look into those eyes as he exited the canoa and mumbled, adios.

but the old man wasn´t looking. in the distance, barely rising above the metallic hum, he had heard that ring again. that ring that makes young people talk while alone. but the youth wouldn´t talk. he just rowed faster and left. and the old man smiled.