King River

King River Tim Reyes

It was hot. The sweat poured out of me. My shirt was sticking to me, all warm and clammy. I wanted to take it off, but I was little embarrassed about my poochy tummy, and, besides, my brothers Jeff and Dave and cousin Stevie still had their shirts on.

"Scoot over, dork." My brother Dave was shifting in his seat. I eyed him. What was he up to? Trying to find a better position to be able to tear leaves off the passing trees? Throwing a rock at a resting squirrel? Trying to catch a passing dragonfly? Whatever it was, Jeff and Stevie were in on it. And I wasn't.

California. We went there every year on our vacation. This time was extra-special. My grandfather was retiring after 35 years as a foreman with the Southern Pacific railroad. It was a big deal.

There had been a fancy dinner at the Depot restaurant. A long, boring dinner that sucked not just because we had to dress up but because we had to sit through speeches and the opening of presents and a bunch of other dumb grown-up stuff.

After a while, the grown ups had sorta forgotten about us kids. So the cousins, led by my brother Jeff, had been sneaking around the restaurant, trying to have some fun. Just as we were about to gulp down a table full of unfinished drinks, Aunt Nadine gave us one of her scary looks, so we went outside (without the Armstrongs, who never got to do anything fun).

Then there had been the party at the Guerra's. I don't know what had been the most fun - seeing my grandma and grandpa's friend Fran get all drunk and give a speech that lasted until my dad had to help him sit down, or throwing june bugs at each other, or tossing bits of food into my grandma's bouffant hairdo without her noticing, or playing bottle rocket target practice. Since I had been the bottle rocket target, I vote for the june bug fight. I was better than the others at catching them, and I wasn't scared of the extra-large variety that hissed and scratched at you with their hairy legs.

And now, as part of the week-long party, the family was at the King River. There was food galore, and ice cold watermelon, and all the pop you wanted. We went swimming, and inner tubing, and explored around the picnic grounds, and shot bottle rockets at those dumb, loud, pasty people in the giant Winnebego next door ("They must be from Texas" Mom had said).

Grandpa and Uncle Sal had come back from fishing, and after Jeff, Dave and Stevie had begged and pleaded, Grandpa had agreed to take us out on his fishing boat.

So there we were -- I was there mostly because it seemed to be agreed that wherever my brothers and Stevie went, I went -- floating down the river. We were pretending to fish, and laughing and joking and making fart noises and skipping stones and learning how to bait a hook and terrorizing any living creature we came across. Having fun.

Well, most of us were. As usual, Jeff, Dave and Stevie were having a great time together. Since they were all about the same age -- 13 to 15 - they had more things in common, or so my mom had explained. At seven, it was kinda hard for me to get their jokes or come up with something they agreed was funny or fun for us to do.

So, I had scooted next to Grandpa. He was fussing over the motor and checking the fishing lines. Grandpa didn't talk unless he had a story to tell or something to teach, and he was being quiet at the moment. So I was quietly trying to ignore the heat by focusing on the drip, drip, drip of my sweat.

Suddenly, the boat jerked to a stop. Thrown forward, the guys stopped what they had been doing and started talking all at once.

"Cool. Did we hit someone?"

"I think it was a tree"

"Dummy. We're in the middle of the river."

"So. We could've hit its roots."

"I think it was a body"

"Or a crocodile."

"There are no crocodiles in California, butthole."

"Not that you know of."

"Is that blood?"

"Yea, I think Dave just had his period."

"Eat me."

"I think it was Darth Vader."

"Huh?!"

Dead silence. Followed by snickers. My attempt to enter the fun had failed again. Before they could launch into just how stupid I was, Grandpa broke in.

"Quite, boys."

Instant silence.

We sensed something in Grandpa's voice. He rarely raised his voice, almost never showed anger or anxiety. This time he was doing all three.

Grandpa messed with the engine, pulled the cord. Nothing. He pulled the cord again. Nothing. He opened the gas cap, looked inside. I guess it had enough gas, because he put the cap back on and pulled the cord. Nothing again.

"Damn it."

Stevie let out a snort and covered his mouth with his hand to hide his laughter. They guys were poking each other, back to normal.

But I was scared. This didn't seem normal. The boat wouldn't start. We had been out for more than an hour, so we were pretty far from camp. And Grandpa was worried. He was trying not so show it, but I could tell.

Now I was glad that I wasn't part of the group with my brothers and Stevie. They were being stupid. They weren't helping. This was serious, damn it.

"Can I help, Grandpa?"

"No son. It's fine. Just sit still."

"Ok."

We were drifting, going at a much slower pace. I looked around. There had to be something Grandpa could do to solve everything. He was hunched over the engine, saying stuff so that we couldn't hear. I knew to leave him alone.

"Ow. Shit!"

"Watch it Dave!"

"I got hit by a damn tree!"

"Look, we're running into a whole forest."

"Shit!"

Since Grandpa was distracted and not saying anything about their swearing, (and, he had said "Damn it") the guys were cussing up a storm.

Grandpa couldn't steer. We had drifted against the shore and run smack into a bunch of trees.

"They're poking me all over."

"Push them out of the way, dumbass."

"They're everywhere. There's no out of the way, dickwad."

"Shit! That almost poked my eye out. You aimed it at me!"

"Serves you right, queerbait."

"I'm going to kick your ass, you wus."

"We need to push back into the middle of the river. And watch your mouths, boys."

We pushed and shoved. Grandpa used the single oar to push at the bottom of the river and steer us towards the middle.

That problem was solved. But we were still drifting without an engine. And it was hotter than ever.

We drifted. Grandpa steered, making sure that we didn't hit the sides of the river again. Minutes, then hours passed by. The sun beat down, hot as ever. I picked up the Coke lying near my foot, tipping it to my tongue. A hot drop fell out. I jiggled the can, hoping for a drop or two more when we were all were shoved forward again.

"Hit a sand bar," Grandpa said.

A tired silence followed.

"Let's get out and push then," Stevie shouted as he hopped out.

We pushed and pulled, rocked the boat side to side, put branches under it to try to roll it along. Nothing. We finally had found a place to rest. It was there under the trees where we heard the put put put put put put of an engine.

An hour or so earlier a boat had passed up, but Grandpa had waved it by like nothing was wrong. By now we all knew something was. Grandpa was a guy who could fix anything. He must have every part for every machine in the world in his garage. My uncles would bring over their broken lawnmowers, my cousins and I would haul over our bike. Even my dad, who is pretty handy himself, would ask him for help. Grandpa could grow anything that had roots and leaves. He cooked a killer carne and made the best"big fat juicy eggs." He sent us to bed every night with story and a massage that ended with a quick spank "to grow on." He could teach you how to do just about anything. He had been bit by a black widow and kept on working after cutting the sting with his pocket knife and sucking out the poison. My Grandpa was the strongest, smartest man I knew.

But we were stuck this time and he knew it.

"I'll signal them, boys," Grandpa said to Dave and Stevie who had run to the edge of the river and were shouting and waving.

He stood tall with his cap in his hand and slowly waved it back and forth. The boat, piloted by a man about my dad's age, pulled up near us.

"Need help?"

I looked at my grandpa. He didn't reply right away. He seemed to study us for a moment, looked over at his boat, then looked back at the man and replied.

"Yes, we do."

My brothers and I don't remember much about the ride back home. My parents remember that day vividly, at least the hours of impotent waiting and worry and the wash of relief when they saw us being towed back. My Grandpa isn't around anymore to tell us what he remembers, so that day can only be pieced together by the various recollections of my family.

I have a theory as to why the memory of that day is distinct in places and fuzzy in others. We all still talk about my grandpa in reverential tones, as a giant of a man who was strong as an ox yet also gentle and loving. But that day on the river, Grandpa was out of his element. He was defeated. He had to ask for help. At the time, that lack of certainty, that vulnerability, scared us. We don't remember much past the initial moments of being stranded because our childhood minds rejected what we saw. But looking back on that day as an adult, I realize that even in his moment of weakness and helplessness, my Grandpa was teaching us something. Being an adult meant caring for your family, meant knowing how to fix things. It also meant asking for help when you really needed it.