Adam and I had been dating for a short time. I knew that I liked him. He was an Asheville man- enlightened but masculine. He had read all my favorite books and knew about my girl bands. But he was no pansy- he loved to eat bloody rare steak and his arms rippled with muscle. He was mild mannered and knew everyone in town. He held the door open for me, but let me pay for meals half the time to respect my feminism. The quality that struck me most was his complete honesty. He did not hold back, unlike myself. I knew that if I asked him a question his reply would be entirely candid.
"Hello? Yeah, dude. I can be ready in 10 minutes. Come on over."
What was happening here? I found out soon enough when a 1987 Ford truck loaded with four grungy men, kayaks, and gear pulled into the driveway. They entered without knocking and sat down in his kitchen. I was still in pajamas and had not brushed my teeth. Adam introduced me to the crew. They were suprisingly polite and engaging. After a few moments of chit chat, the conversation turned serious.
"Where are we going today?" Adam was clearly their leader, and all eyes were on him. He launched into the kayaking equivalent of the Gettysburg Address.
"Today is high water heaven, just name a river and we can go there. On a day like today, the question is not what's running, the question is what's not running. This is the kind of day people lose jobs over. Let's go get it boys!"
With that, they departed to chase water. Later that day Adam called me to say that they were completely shut out. They ended up passing the afternoon drinking whiskey in a small town bar in North Carolina after eight hours of driving.
This was my shocking introduction to the world of kayaking. I was some girl who spent the night at a kayaker's house and was left behind the next morning. Luckily, Adam always comes home to me when the river dries up.
