He
was a big, fat, white guy, so white he gleamed, glistening with sweat and SPF
5000 with insect repellent and shea butter, and his hair sweatily
plastered in swirls to his head.
He
was handling his kayak pretty well for someone who doesn't do it
often (which was apparent), not splashing his blades too much. We
were going to meet in the Narrows, where we would surely pass close
enough to touch paddles.
We
did. As we drew near, he looked over at me with an almost atavistic
expression of vacation ecstasy on his face and SHOUTED,
“ISN'T
THIS THE WAY TO SPEND THE DAY?!!!!” He was loud on
the quiet pond.
Then
I heard the music. He had a boom box clamped between his knees,
blasting himself crotch-first with something I couldn't even guess
at.
I
smiled and nodded at him, as he could never have heard me, as we
passed. I loved him for what he was, hoped he didn't burn too badly, and paddled on.
I
can't help thinking he was missing the point, though.
