One more short vacation it was. This time me and my tiny intelligent friend were excitedly looking forward to the canoe trip on the Spring River in Arkansas. He used to do canoeing before— only once—and for me it was a first time in my life.
We were camping, cooked beef shish kebab on a bonfire, ate some dark cherries and went to sleep in a tent. In the morning we headed to the canoe station and soon there we were, paddling and proudly looking at each other.
We didn’t go far at all. My friend said that The Man was supposed to sit in the front as the strongest and most experienced one. So he insisted on us changing places—while in the canoe. I was weakly trying to protest, because it didn’t seem like a good idea at all, but he was unshakable. So we paddled closer to the bank and the last picture I remember was him stepping out in the water, and then we flipped over. The river was only waist deep, and the next thing I saw after wiping the algae out of my face, was my friend holding the canoe, stomping his foot and jerking his head in a fury, simultaneously exclaiming with every word, “Shit! F**k! Shit! F**k!”
He drowned his new expensive prescription glasses!
I drowned my camera, so I don’t have any proof of me taking this trip.
Our Birkenstocks were dancing a slow waltz, floating down the river. Some nice couple in the other canoe picked them up and brought back to us. Now I know why they have cork bottoms!
We were facing a problem there—we didn’t know how to empty the boat, full of water. As long as I had my sandals on again, I volunteered to walk back and ask for a help, while he was holding the canoe—we were only in a half a mile from the start.
It was the longest half a mile in my life. The river bank was covered with tall saw-grass and broken trees. I didn’t have much more than a bikini swimming suit and a tiny skirt on—it was a very hot day—so my legs got covered with long saw-grass cuts and looked like I’d gotten in a fight with a bobcat, or practiced some kind of S&M. I was only praying for not stepping on a snake and not getting into poison ivy.
Finally, I reached the starting point, found a sleepy canoe guy, and he took me back. There was a nice trail on the other bank (if only I knew that I didn’t have to walk all over that saw-grass!). All we had to do was swim to the other side, where my friend was still standing in the water to his waist and holding on a canoe. He had managed to scoop almost all the water away just with his hands while waiting.
The sleepy guy showed us what to do in case like that. “Y’all just lift it bottom-up in the air, water pours out, then you turn that somabitch back over and y’all good to go!”
We had to use that wisdom one more time, when we flipped over again on a little rapid.
Then there was a very nice slow floating down the beautiful river, but every time we heard the sound of a next rapid (and even the smallest of them sound like a subway train to me) I was getting nervous. I knew there should be a big one, with a very narrow slide just between two rocks.
Finally it was there, and we went through, smoothly and nicely, and kept floating to the final destination! We had an hour or so until being picked up and enjoyed swimming in the cold water of the Spring River.
Later that day I discovered a huge bruise on my hip— with all that adrenalin rush I never noticed how I got it.
On the way back we were pulled over for speeding. I was comfort- ably reclining in a passenger seat in a mini sundress (what could I do, it’s hot in Arkansas!) and exposing my long, tanned, bruised, and scratched all over legs.
The huge clumsy cop was trying not to stare too obviously, but he couldn’t keep his eye- brows from going all the way up and his big bright eyes from rolling. Panting and sweating, he seemed to try to imagine all possible ways in which that fine foreign lady’s legs could be decorated so badly. (Remember? My companion was petite, and I am not!)
It was my first (but not last) time of getting away with a mini help of a mini skirt! Needless to say, we didn’t get a ticket and kept our journey—my friend, me and a happy laughter. 
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This article was originally printed in The Local Voice #137 (published August 11, 2011).
