The beginning of the end:
In the Backseat of the Boat and in route to Arthur’s pass for rest day number two. In the backseat of the boat with Chester and the Chili-bin between us. The textured white top stinking and stained, a result of the chicken chopping that Carl did cooler-top in preparation for our first dinner of the trip. That being several days ago. Now the salmonella stink, bits of chicken skin dried and knifed into the plastic.
Sunday morning swells through the mountain roads, the sway of the boat around the curves, the motion of the ocean.
And soon we are sipping Kool Aid our of glass mugs at our rest day abode: the familiar Kennedy Lodge. We seem to fall into chairs like sacks of potatoes, we seem to rise with a creaking of bones. Torn up and sore from our days at Castle Hill. Wishing still, though that we were slapping up boulders in the Spiritual Center of the Universe. Down the road and awaiting our return tomorrow. Torn up and sore.
TORN UP: Abrasions, the shiny pink plains spread over our knees and our elbows. Over our chests, because of the beached whale top-outs, we sliding shirtless over the rocks. Castle Hill road rash and spreading. Then there are the deep tissue chomps—the gouges in the fingers above and below the knuckles. A favorite sound bite being “Shit, I should have taped up.” Locking and cranking on the dignitary lobes of this, the human camming machine. Cut calluses on the toe knuckles—the shoes much too tight—bleeding bites on the inside of the anikle bones from falling off of heel-hooks. Finger tips on fire, our skin left behind on the boulders, and we are left only with pink bulbous globes opposite our finger nails.
And
SORE: The elbow and shoulder joints worked over despite the pronator and reverse wrist curl exercises, despite the uncountable push-ups and the thera-band exercises. The Castle Hill compression working its black magic. Then the latissimus dorsi, the would-be wings of human beings failing at simple tasks, such as the opening of car doors. Lower back pain for some reason. Falling? The repeated falls off of the rock? The repeated falls off of the rock? And legs unbendable, they are bone stilts extending from the pelvis.
We move like dumpy clowns through the hut. Ancient. Let us sit. Let us sit and watch films on the laptop. Let us sit. Let us deck lounge in the sun beneath mountains. Beans and rice in a pot on the stove. And hopefully we are healed by sun-up tomorrow. Unlikely.
That is what I wrote then, and prophetic it turned out to be. Thus, the end:
Retreat Retreat with tails between legs, with hands held cupped in our laps. After only a half day at the hill on Monday we retreat. Beaten, torn up, tired, and sore. Done a day early and on our way home. Shoulders, Elbows, Tendons of fingers: done. A day early and on our way home.
And back in Christchurch:
A poker game after a massive four dollar feed at the Chinese fish and chip store down the street. I have never been given this much food for so little money. A wrapped package of grease. The entire meal fried golden delicious. A package a package under the arm, like a mailman delivering cardiac carnage. Jog down the street to the flat, each and everyone with a package, a package, the packages hot and grease stains spreading like inkblots on the paper. We wash down the golden feast with pale white wine from a bag. The goons flow freely, space bags filled with liters of wine. They are chucked from one person to another—across the room—to the separate picnic areas. The couch, the chairs, the table, the floor.
Then Texas Hold ‘em on a card table unfolded green. Let the chips click-clack together. Let the money loosing begin. Dub music out of laptop speakers. Carl’s pile dwindling, he goes all in on a long shot and, after loosing, ends up buying a plane ticket home to Rotorua in the couch-sitting aftermath of the chip exchange.
Simon follows suit soon after. And then it is Mark, Chester, and I, the big dogs eying each other behind big stacks. Stone faced and sipping on mason jars full of bag wine. The play eventually degenerates to unmatchable bets thrown willy-nilly from player to player to player. Half-stack blinds and it comes down to the luck of the draw. Chester on a streak and smiling.
Three cheers. Drain the jar and find a spot on the floor to sleep. Back in Christchurch and flip the switch OFF.
The Fish is gone before we wake. On a plane and flying north. Back to home base, back to the sulfur city. Chester will follow tomorrow. Simon the day after. But while we wait for departures we will do it in style.
Jellie Park Jellie Park let the agua flow forth. Let the healing begin in the liquid rebirth. Baptized in the chlorine-colored water of the city spa. Ah. Jellie Park.
We roll up shirtless and shoeless with towels slung over our shoulders. Marky, Chester, Myself. We are grown-men totem-poles swaying through the crowd of the after-school swarm. It is a constant jostling of waist- and shoulder-high cadets through the turnstiles, they stripping off ties and shirts and shoes and desperate to take the plunge into the pool. Hot fun in the summer time. The vibration of memories echoed in the diving board bounce.
We marathon through the steam room, the outdoor pool, the indoor pool, the Jacuzzi—Oh! Ho! The Jacuzzi, each jet like the arm of a massive masseuse pounding the knots out of our backs, out of our arms and out of our legs—back to the steam room, the outdoor pool, the indoor pool, the Jacuzzi—Oh! Ho! The Jacuzzi…
And two times is enough. Shower and exit. Wrinkled and rolling from one foot to the other like opium addicts pricked and swaying slightly with smiles on our faces. Rest and relaxation. The drugs of leisure. “It’s all right to take a little nip. But don’t you fall down, bust your lip.”
Mark and I compare the insides of our hands once we are inside of the car. Skin falling off in wet flakes, finger prints demolished—only craters above the last joint of each digit—palms cut, calluses bleached white and sagging, both of us looking like burn victims examining the damage. Leprous and laughing as we start the car and head for home. Planning always and always planning the next trip to Castle Hill.
No comments:
Post a Comment