I'm trying to find socks under my bed when Street Fighter music screeches metallically through my phone, waking me from my dream. 'Yes I'll be at canoeing today. See you there at one-thirty,' I rasp, my voice still hoarse from the previous night's activities. I check the time. 11.45. Shit. Even though I've had the RDI eight hours' sleep, my head aches and my eyes burn when I open them. Heading downstairs, I find a note from my mum on the kitchen table, and upon reading it, I am transformed into a tight knot of anger and despair. I was right, after all, I think to myself. I've walked into a trap, and thrown away the key. Since I no longer have my punching bag, I take out my frustration on my bed. Not a great start to the Monday holiday.
Despite the sunny weather, the drive down to the National Park is cheerless. I'm playing the 'emo' playlist on my iPod to suit my mood, although with the fuel gauge near empty I've had to wind down the windows so that now I can hardly hear a thing. At one point I swerve abruptly across three lanes to drive into Maccas for a quick bite. I'm so glad no one else is in the car.
After paying ten bucks (Ten bucks! Why isn't there anyone in my car to split the cost?!) to enter the Park, I follow the signs and take the windy road down the mountain. And in spite of myself, this part of the drive really brightens my spirits. The spotted green cover of the trees overhead, the blinding white sunlight, the chance to pretend to be a rally driver drifting through turns... I realise that I don't
have to listen to what anyone says, ever. The chains slip magically from my wrists.
After waiting by the river for almost an hour, the others arrive femininely late. We scramble into the canoes, two to each one, and push off. The boats glide through the water, cutting through the sparkling surface with ease. We paddle enthusiastically, long deep strokes, and head towards the middle of the river. As we paddle further downriver the crowds thin, and we're framed on either side by reeds and fallen logs. Gatherings of ducks waddle on the banks, or plunge their heads underwater, or float idly by, eyeing the boats suspiciously. Birds call on either side, and there's the occasional dragonfly and even an eel that wriggles past at the bottom of the river.
It feels like I'm a million miles from the choking traffic, the mad rush, the piling bills. The lethargic flow of the river has, temporarily, forgiven the daily grind of life. The water is cool against hot skin. It's such a beautiful day.
