Some months ago, I moved West. I did this because, quite frankly, life in Central Maine, although full of drives to stunningly beautiful mountains and lakes, rivers and forests, ocean, and people I instantly understand, had become a bit regular for me. The main problem with the place, from my point of view, is that most of my days there are boring, lonely things that repeat themselves over and over again, endlessly, like a dvd menu screen. But for 4 to 8 weeks in the spring the place turns into kind of a playground. By which I mean, there’s a time when the skies vomit out their rage on the ground, and the entire state becomes not so much land as a lake with dirt in it. Everywhere you step is like a sodden sponge, and the rivers flow black and deep and cold and angry; curvilinear, chaotic.
[youtube]http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=SgfIR8rNmKg[/youtube]
A Video of Madison Surfing 2010, by Adam Swett
At those times, I find the desire growing in me – maybe like an instinct in a homing pigeon or like Jonah Hill’s urge to eat, to surf the crap out of giant, eddy-served waves, to be cleansed with cold and deep, black, angry water. To get thrashed by rivers like a cat toy by a cat.
And so, after a couple of weeks of hemming and hawing and gnawing at my own lips, I bought a ticket, packed up my kayak, and flew back.
I saw some pretty stunning things along the way. Such as, for example, the TSA people, after cutting open my sealed-up kayak, (and after me expressing my concern) putting enough tape on it to mummify half of Al Qaeda and at least ten percent of our domestic terror cells back home. Other sights along the way: a massive, anvil-headed cloud at night, just above and outside Chicago, lit from within like God’s own plasma ball, sending shafts of lightning several thousand feet, like pillars of fire down into the earth. And somewhere above Vermont, I woke to see the biggest, longest-lasting shooting star I’ve ever seen, out the window of the plane. It seemed to burn and drop for the better part of a minute, from above us to below us. I thought about yelling for the other passengers to look, but they were all asleep, and I was reminded unfavorably of John Lithgow in the Twilight Zone, shouting, “There’s something on the wing of this plane!” and so, wisely (I think) I kept it to myself.
I was rewarded for my trouble and expense with many things I love. The white pines, unlike western trees, sticking out crazed branches in all directions, like they just could care less. Peepers dopplering past my open car windows in the evening – cacophonic cocktail parties of little pond-bound frogs. Dinner with family. Some of the best pizza you can find outside Manhattan, from the Winslow House of Pizza. (For some reason I don’t understand, pizza can only be made properly, East of the Mississippi, and by Greeks. The best pizza in Missoula, Montana, by contrast is at Papa John’s. I know, I know.)
And oh yeah, I got several consecutive days of surfing giant waves. The weather, thankfully unlike Lucy and her football taunting Charlie Brown, cooperated, bringing the Madison wave in for days on end, and Steep Falls, too.
The author surfing the Madison Wave on the Kennebec River, Madison, Maine. Photo by Adam Swett
So, I got to get thrown around by an eight-foot wave, throwing blunts, getting thrashed, and paddling back up again and again, like a rat in a psychology experiment, for hours per day, until I apologized in advance to other boaters in the eddy, in case I took an exhaustion-induced swim. I got to hang with tons of old Maine paddling friends. Chuck Mathieu, always good for a laugh and an encouraging word. One time when three teen girls in bikinis walked up and bent over right in front of us to pet a puppy, he said, loudly, “Awesome.” Meredith Wheeler, who somehow puts up with Chuck. Chris “The Incredible” Hull, who shows up at Madison for 20 minutes and inscribes the shape of his own DNA helices in invisible lines in the air above the wave. Nick Callanan, master of the Maine whitewater publishing world. (I figured maybe if I put that line in, he’d publish my story.) Arthur Dickey, whom I love like a brother – just not mine. Steve Dickey (no relation) who for some reason always looks at everyone’s ass while we are changing in the parking lot. (Make sure you ask him about that — he loves it.) Danielle Smyth – not technically a kayaker, but still I am impressed by her ability to fill an entire rafting bar by standing out near the road, wearing a papier-mâché pig’s head and energetically shaking her hips. Adam Swett, a man nearly as old as me who throws some impressively high-flying moves in a very pink boat. Hutch Brown, he of the high-pitched voice and often surprising, always welcome outlook on life. Mike Wiltse, who asked me to consider, among other things, how unpleasant it is when a male kayaker puts on his skirt, his shorts ride up, and we all get to see his white, hairy, pimply, “man-thigh.” Josh Geib, who does the best Eric Cartman impression I’ve ever heard, and throws a pistol flip that requires prior clearance from NORAD. Nate St. Savior, who still hasn’t acted on my sound advice to him that he add the words, “Jesus Christ” to the end of his last name. Skowhegan Mark, usually occupying some reality adjacent to our own. And more, and more, and more. If you read this and we hung out and I didn’t mention your name, it is only because I hate you.
I got to eat fantastic Mexican food at the Fajita Grill in Gorham and drink margaritas the size of my head. I got to see about a zillion friends I hadn’t seen for months. Laughter. Excitement. Romance. And the Kenduskeag Stream race to top it all off.
On the way back to Montana, I had a very Austin Powers-like experience
when a TSA guy with a dry sense of humor went through my carry-on, itemizing its contents aloud for me while I looked on. “One roll of duct tape. Three pairs of underwear. Two cam straps. One small plastic model of a pro-wrestler, with folding chair.”
And on the whole, and in every detail, the trip was well, well worth it. I don’t know where I’ll wind up eventually, but I’ve got a pretty good feeling that every spring, like the swallows returning to Capistrano and Lindsay Lohan back in rehab, I’ll come home to Maine. Look for me in the eddy. But don’t bogart my wave. Or I’ll shout at you.