As the Current Pulls the Fallen Under

by Daryl Sneath

  There was no money to be made, no professional circuit to dominate, no fame to be had (beyond the pages of the inglorious Heron River Review and the few features in Canadian Paddler), no chance for the Olympics, no World Championships. But none of that mattered to her. What mattered was being in her canoe on the river. The near noiselessness. The solitude. The power and speed she had complete control over. She loved it unapologetically, unwaveringly. Which is rare and enviable.

  THE 100th ANNUAL PADDLE THE HERON: HERON RIVER, ON

  It’s called ‘pursuit.’ Every thirty seconds another boat is sent off downriver. Save the first who has no one to chase and the last who has everyone, each paddler becomes both the hunter and the hunted.

  At dinner the night before the race Serra looked across the table and told Stephen she’d heard there was an up-and-coming solo paddler who might give him a run for his money this year. Trained two, sometimes three hours a day. Strong. Tough. Relentless. Technically proficient. Smart too. Knew the river like it ran through her veins. Even slept with her paddle if you can believe it.

  Rayn looked up from her plate. She slept with her paddle.

  Serra raised her glass and motioned for Rayn and Stephen to do the same. ‘To a daughter in pursuit of her father.’

  Rayn leapt from the table and threw her arms around her mother so hard they fell together to the floor. The two of them lay there, laughing.

  Stephen buttered his bread. ‘Imagine you’d told her about the new boat waiting for her in the garage.’

  Rayn sat up and looked at him. He grinned and held up his glass. She turned to her mother who nodded and smiled. Rayn looked at her father again.

  ‘Happy Birthday, Ray.’

  She looked at her open hands in her lap, paddle-calloused and a little shaking, a welling in her throat. She was the happiest fourteen-year-old burgeoning solo canoeist in the history of the world.

  Her father finished his wine and wiped his mouth. ‘Go see how she feels.’

  Stephen and Serra stood at the kitchen window and watched their daughter emerge from around the corner with the canoe on her shoulders.

  Stephen folded his arms.

  Serra touched her head to his chest. ‘She might beat you tomorrow, you know.’

  ‘She might.’

  ‘And if she does?’

  ‘I’ll say I let her win.’

  She bumped him with her hip. ‘You will not.’

  ‘I’ll say it was the boats. Hers is new and light and fast. Mine is old and heavy and slow.’

  ‘You mean you’re old and heavy and slow.’

  He put an arm around her and squeezed. ‘If she’s as quick as her mother I’m in trouble.’

  ‘Seriously. What will you do?’

  He pictured the image before he said it. ‘I’ll swing her up to my shoulders like she was four again. I’ll parade her around the docks. I’ll say, Hey everybody, this is my little girl, Rayn Down. Fastest paddler on the Heron. Ain’t she something? Ain’t she something?’

  CLIPPINGS (13)

  (taken from “Sorn Settles for Silver,” Toronto Star)

  “Gliding into the wall one one-hundredth of a second slower than superstar American swimmer Matt Biondi, Toronto’s Max Sorn, who the country was banking on to win gold, had to settle for a silver medal yesterday in the men’s hundred metre fly. When asked about the loss shortly after the race, Sorn didn’t know what to say. Poolside, he stood dripping, hands on hips, chest heaving, and shook his head.”

  ~

  I’ve seen the video of the race a hundred times. Biondi holds half a body length on Max for the first fifty, and after the turn Max inches his way even. Three strokes from the wall it’s like they’re swimming in unison. The finish was so close they had to go to the tape to determine the winner. If Max’s middle finger was an inch longer, he would’ve won.

  This is for certain: there was no gliding and he didn’t settle. Max never settled. Put anything in slow motion and see how easy it is to point out faults.

  Fortunately, what wasn’t caught on video is what Max did that night in Seoul.

  THE OLYMPIC GAMES: SEOUL, SOUTH KOREA

  After he cooled down he gathered his things, said very little to his coach and teammates, and left the Aquatic Centre. He donned a solitary disappointed look so no one would bother him. He didn’t want the consoling, the conciliatory congratulations. He didn’t want to be talked to about it. He had bore the weight of a nation’s expectations and he’d failed. That was it. The race was over. There was nothing else to say.

  At the time, he believed he was finished. There was no way he could start another four years of training. What would be the point? The hours upon hours of pulling himself back and forth through water in a lane that never changes. A two-by-fifty metre cell. Eyes on you all the time. Relentless.

  I remember him telling me he wanted to disappear after Seoul. Get lost in the desert or fly to the moon. Somewhere without water and expectations. But as it turned out he only took three weeks off before returning to the pool. He said it was the scholarship that brought him back. There are far worse ways to make money, he assured me, than swimming a few laps a day.

  A few hundred is more like it.

  But I don’t think it was the scholarship. I don’t think it had anything to do with money or obligation. I could tell by the way he talked about it. He felt lost without it. I don’t think I’ll feel lost without running when the time comes. But who knows? It’s so much easier to identify a thing after it’s gone.

  Anyway, before the return to training—before the completion of his Psychology degree at Michigan State and his year at St. Clair College for Police Foundations, before Barcelona and the second silver medal, before his life with Rayn, before me—there was the one inglorious night in Seoul, South Korea.

  . . .

  It was after ten when he left the Aquatic Centre and climbed into the front seat of a cab.

  He slapped the dashboard.

  ‘To the place where the beer flows freely and the women are wild and willing.’

  As a rule Max never drank more than the occasional bloodfriendly glass of red wine. Indulgence conflicted with training and his commitment to a clean lifestyle. Ahead of his time, he knew about post-workout protein requirements and electrolyte replenishment before the existence of protein bars and Gatorade. He knew the approximate sodium and saturated fat contents of foods before products had bare-all biographies printed on their sides. Health conscious before it was trendy. In tune with everything.

  But that night in the centre of the South Korean capital he was on a mission: total debauchery. He needed a release.

  The cab driver looked at him, wide-eyed.

  ‘English not good. Tell again. Slow.’

  Max recalled a little of the ‘survival’ Korean he had studied leading up to the Games.

  ‘Na-nun mek-ju yuh-ja gamnida.’

  His accent was far from native and his grammar was broken. He’d managed to say, ‘I beer woman go.’

  The cab driver squinted.

  ‘Once more time.’

  ‘Mek-ju. Yuh-ja.’

  ‘Mek-ju. Beer.’

  Max snapped his fingers and pointed.

  ‘You got it, my man. Beer.’

  ‘Yuh-ja. Woman. Sexy woman.’

  ‘Yes, god damn it. Sexy woman.’

  ‘Ahhh, you go Itaewon. Red light district.’

  Max clapped once. ‘Itaewon. Let’s go.’

  ‘Gamshida. Let’s go.’

  ‘Gamshida. Gamshida. Gamshida.’

  They laughed together in a moment of borderless fraternity, these two men who knew nothing of each other or the type of life the other lived.

  In Itaewon, just past the Hamilton Hotel, the stretch affectionately known as Hooker Hill, it wouldn’t take Max long to achieve his goal. He
entered the first bar he saw and sat down at a table with three American soldiers who were well on their way. He bought a few rounds and in less than an hour he’d thrown back half a dozen beer himself and a few shots of soju. For good measure, he took two or three healthy pulls on the joint the soldiers passed around, inexperienced as he was, and mimicked the way they held the smoke in. He exhaled and fell back in his chair, grinning, arms limp at his sides. After one more round, he got up from the table, tipped an invisible hat to his fellow tokers, and stumbled outside into the throng. The street was a river of the inebriated and staggering and it roiled with their slurry song. Every man was every other man’s brother and they had all lost their way, left to wager on the comfort they might find in oblivion.

  Max clapped strangers on the back, joined in the wailing, and, taken by the moment, stood imbalanced in the middle of the road, teetering, arms spread wide to the night, eyes closed to the moon. ‘Second fastest flyer in the world, god damn it. So what’s wrong with that?’

  When he opened his eyes, he marched on with intention, mumbling gamshida, gamshida, gamshida as he went.

  He swung himself through the door of the first place he found with a barbershop pole out front, and in the sour, sweaty darkness he felt damp hands on his body and lips at his ear almost instantly. Classical music played softly in the background.

  ‘Oooh, so strong man. So sexy man.’

  The stranger kissed his mouth, ran her hands over his body, moaned.

  ‘Oooh, sexy. Mmm. Sexy, sexy.’

  He put his hands on her like a blind man feeling his way.

  ‘Mmm. You rike. Mmm-hmn. You rike, yes?’

  His eyes were closed and he nodded. She took him by the wrist and led him to a room with a beaded curtain for a door, a muted light beside a jar filled with bills on a table in the corner. He could see her face, but barely, and didn’t want to. She sat him down on the squeaky cot, straddled him, and spoke as plainly in English as she could.

  ‘Ten dollah hand. Twenty mouse. Pipty inside.’

  He slipped a crisp American hundred from his shirt pocket.

  ‘What do I get for this?’

  She stretched the bill to the light and her eyes widened. ‘For this, I fuck you rike God.’

  She stood and peeled her silky slip, went to her knees, pulled him out, stroked him with the money in her hand, took him in her mouth and moaned, slid him between her tiny breasts, slapped him against her skin, slipped her lips around him again and devoured him, moaning with the effort, and then like an artist intent on a line drew the tip of him from her mouth and with it traced a slow wet snaking brushstroke down the length of her body and held him there at the edge, throbbing in her hand, against her teasing heat.

  She slid down the length of him and he fell back on the bed with the rush of it.

  ‘God,’ he muttered. ‘Like God.’

  He woke on a bench by the River Han with a woolly mouth and a thumping head. Every heartbeat hurt and squeezing his eyes did nothing but bring back the night. Joggers went by with purpose and the ten-lane road behind him hummed with its hurried, unwaning traffic.

  He stood, teetered, stuck out his arms like a tightrope walker, and crossed the path to the rail. He gripped the cold metal with both hands, for balance at first, then leaned back and loaded his body as though he were on the blocks at the start of a race. He breathed deeply in and at the imagined sound of the starter’s horn hurled himself over the rail into the cold coffee-coloured swill. He swam the width, climbed out the other side, and stood there, hands on his hips and nose to the rising sun like some kind of hero. Then he fell to his knees and emptied his stomach into the river. Relief and punishment at once.

  By the time he returned to the athletes’ village the place was beginning to buzz with the day’s competitors. When he entered his room his roommate groaned, sat up, and rubbed his eyes. Said if he’d woken up and Max wasn’t there he was sending out a search party. Max sat on the edge of his bed and told the roommate he’d had quite the night but he was fine now. He went on to explain how he’d left the pool after the race wanting to clear his head. He went for a jog. Navigationally challenged as he was, he joked, it didn’t take him long to get lost. A right turn here, a left turn there, and the hum of the city was behind him. He should’ve known better. Everywhere he looked looked the same. There were no signs and no one he encountered spoke English. Soon it was dark. He kept running and turning down random streets trying to get back to the recognizable city but it seemed every turn took him farther away. At one point he was jumped from behind by four men wearing black bandanas and black leather wristbands. He was able to fend them off for the most part but they managed to hold him down long enough to liberate him of his money and his athlete ID.

  ‘You were mugged?’

  Max shrugged and nodded.

  ‘Jesus. You okay?’

  ‘I am now.’

  The roommate shook his head. ‘That’s fucking crazy, man. You’re lucky they didn’t kill you.’

  Max opened his eyes wide. ‘I know.’

  The roommate yawned and stretched. ‘So why the fuck are you all wet?’

  Max stumbled a bit but not noticeably. ‘Didn’t the storm hit here?’

  The roommate shrugged. ‘Couldn’t tell you. I was sound asleep.’

  ‘Oh. Well, after my little encounter with the black bandanas. I found a park and curled up on a bench.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe I slept on a park bench. Anyway, I woke up to the sky pouring down on me. By the time I climbed into a cab I was soaked.’

  Satisfied, the roommate nodded, dropped his head to the pillow, and closed his eyes.

  ‘Glad you’re all right, man.’

  ‘Thanks. I should grab a shower.’

  Which is what he did and that was the end of it.

  Until twenty-five years later when Max found himself sitting in an armchair by a window in the psyche ward of St. Joe’s, slippered and medicated, telling me—his seventeen-year-old son, who he claimed not to recognize—the story of his Olympic debauchery, a story that sounded true but was so out of character it was difficult for this once worshipping son to believe.

  At the end of the visit I asked him if he needed anything. Without thinking I called him Dad. By then I knew better.

  ‘How many times do I have to tell you, kid? I’m not your fucking dad. You must be stupid or something. Wait. That’s it isn’t it. You’re a retard. The doctors must have had a brainstorm. Hey, the retard and the whack job might get along. Let’s put them together and see what happens. Nice. Well fuck them. And fuck you, too.’

  I spoke calmly. ‘Nobody put us together.’

  ‘Oh, I see. You chose me. Is that it? You’re a fucking con then. I know how it is. Get close to the nutbar and maybe he puts you in his will. Big score. Well, I don’t think so, sonny-boy. So why don’t you just fuck off and leave me alone.’

  ‘I’m not going to do that.’

  ‘Okay. I know what it is now. They caught you with your hand in the cookie-jar and this is your punishment. Sit and listen to Mr. Loonie-Tunes an hour a week. They think it makes us feel good, to have someone to talk to. Well, I’ll tell you something. It doesn’t. It makes us feel like fucking charity cases, you want to know the truth. No one in here has anyone who cares. That’s why we’re here. So come if you have to. Serve your sentence. Do your Jesus work. Whatever. I’ll play my part. But don’t call me your fucking dad. You hear? Don’t call me your fucking dad.’

  . . .

  I lost them both that day in the underground. The difference was that some of Max remained. I often thought it would’ve been easier if he were completely gone. I don’t mean dead, just gone. Whatever that means. Each time I went to see him I went with the fleeting hope that more of him would return but it never did. At least with Rayn the image was fixed. In my mind she never changed. She was forever
sunbright and smiling, forever proud. I picture her reaching for my hand as the train comes screeching in. She smiles and her eyes say, Vector, don’t worry. Everything will be okay.

  LIKE SOME KIND OF HERO

  CLIPPINGS (14)

  (taken from “Evil Underground: Man Pushes Woman to her Death,” TorontoStar.com)

  “Museum Station was the site of a tragic, unspeakable scene yesterday afternoon when a man described by one witness as ‘crazed-looking’ pushed an innocent bystander onto the tracks as a train was approaching. Another witness said the pusher then ‘stretched out his arms, threw back his head, and called out, Jesus, take me home’ as he threw himself in front of the oncoming train. The woman’s son and husband were with her at the time of the incident. The name of the woman and her alleged attacker have not yet been released. Investigations continue today.”

  ~

  I’ve tried to forget his face but I can’t. I wake up at night and he’s right there looking down at me. He taps me on the shoulder when I least expect it and whispers, ‘Boo.’ He sits across from me in restaurants, superimposes himself onto the bodies of strangers in crowds. He’s the tattooed girl with blue hair in Starbucks who hands me my grande every morning. He’s the garbage collector. The bearded homeless man asking for change. The bus-driver. My Fundamentals of Energy Sustainability Tutor. He’s my father. He’s the image of God in my dreams.

  I want to run into a hospital screaming, ‘There’s someone trying kill me—inside my head—he’s right here, see?—someone please catch him by the throat and haul him out—shoot him, stab him, cut him free and burn him to ashes—please, someone help me—help me, please,’ and if the surgeons can’t do anything then maybe they’ll send me to the psyche ward and lock me up like Max and serve me trays of gourmet pills. That might be enough. That might do it.