The canoeist

 The Canoeist

After John Cheever’s short story, The Swimmer

By john stokes 

Like revelations that come to sages on exiled islands, it dawned upon him what he must do. He would canoe across the county. That cold November morning that had killed his beloved glories, he pulled the Old Town from the racks. The royalex no longer made, it fell  with a rocking to the dirt. It was the sixteen foot Chipewan model,originally bright yellow, now a dull green from multiple spray painted coatings, with a mostly yellow bottom showing through the scrape marks. He had secured the canoe from an abandoned garage, rescuing it from a long forgotten dry docking, giving it new seats and yoke. Heaving it overhead, with the Bending Branches bent wooden paddle lashed to the thwart, purchased by him from funds his few loyal employees raised for him on his sudden Friday April firing, ending nineteen years denying the Golden Rule,he portaged over to Paul's pool, leaf free unlike his, chlorine mists stinging his vision. Like many of his neighbors, he only knew him by first name. He knew he drank beer and talked loudly on his cell phone was about the extent of his knowledge. And he wasn't home. He was glad to exit this unimaginative rectangular pond and portaged his route downhill to Lenvil Dicks pond which spilled over into the Price Creek. He thought of the times he and his estranged son,now in Japan, fished along the banks, and he hurried to exit this area of the stabbing shallows to the cool creek. Once in the shade of this twisted way, he got as far as old Country Club road before having to hurry across, dodging the rapid moving, like a possum on the highway.With  thanks given to Buck Hill for digging his series of dikes in the sixties, he at last made his way into the big  lake called Alligator, named for the old Seminole chief who once made his home where now the upper crust dwelt along the high side roam.

He paddled with his favorite j-stroke in long pull and twist the wrist turns, able to keep to the left gunnel, tracking a straight line. At the end of Alligator by the Tiger stadium, a creek trickled out which eventually formed Clay Hole Creek, some water yet remaining from the summer falls which flooded some residents,blaming the County.  They said in the ancient of days this was once a continual river all the way down to the Itchetucknee. No longer. Forgoing  the blame, it was a continual disembark and pull affair. This was one reason he preferred the canoe over the kayak. The getting in and out. With a long series of repeats, he entered Rose Creek, which he transversed west, taking the right fork at 133 to the headwaters. He was near High Falls, though he never found a fall, surmising there was once a fall long ago or perhaps it was a hippy hangout. His longest portage faced him as he crossed hayfield and bogs below Lulu to Olustee Creek, which designated the lower border of his county. A deeper tannic color, his only obstacles were the many fallen trees replete with hornet nests and banana spiders. It was an arduous paddle, which tested his resolve, but he was too far southward to turn back. And if to add insult to his misery, when he finally made it to O'Leno Park, the stream abruptly went underground in a whirlpool. Another long portage through swamps of moccasin and ticks loomed. When the river appeared again at River Rise, he was now on the clear Santa Fe, a wide, navigable dream of a river. It made the long series of hardships worth the journey. From then on, it was a joy to float along, tracing the southernmost contours and bends, padding past July Spring, Hollingsworth bluff, Wilson Springs and finally to the point where the Itchetucknee's clear water  met the Santa Fe tea. Though nearing sixty, a washed up shell of his former vigor, he knew his journey across county was complete. But even in his weakened, near delirious state, he was loathe to call it quits. He was tired of calling it quit, of having others call it quit for him on Friday's! No, this day he would call the quits, he would find a worth far beyond the arbitrary worthlessness placed upon him. 

So on that cold and uneventful Friday in November, with the memory of his wilted morning glories still stinging, the Canoeist continued on for the Suwannee. He would make the Gulf eventually, his once Popeye like left forearm turning the J-stroke into the current.