I Don’t Obsess, Really, I Don’t
People often ask me how I find the time to do it all. Work, I am police officer in Providence, Rhode Island. My wife and I have two sons, and I write books. It’s a lot.
I have given some things up. I am not as fit as I used to be, fortunately I have an office job these days. Our house is the one in our suburban neighborhood that looks like it’s always decorated for Halloween. There are any number of leaky faucets home repairs that get pushed aside for deadlines or writing related stuff.
A couple of years, or two books ago, as I have now come to measure time, a close friend of mine commented on my hectic schedule approaching a deadline.
“It’s not worth sacrificing your health.” He said.
“Oh no, it is.” I told him with the sincerity of someone who has joined a cult. Not just any cult but the writing cult. Writing is obsessive. I think most writers will tell you or maybe grudgingly admit that they resent the days that they don’t write. I know that I do. I have been known, a great risk of incurring my wife’s wrath, to take the laptop on family vacations. Yup, I’m “that guy”.
...a close friend of mine commented on my hectic schedule approaching a deadline. “It’s not worth sacrificing your health.” He said. “Oh no, it is.” I told him with the sincerity of someone who has joined a cult. "
There is one exception to the resenting the not writing thing. That is when I am in a kayak or canoe going camping. A few times a year a bunch of us, all in our fifties, get on the water. I usually don’t make the summer trips on nice rivers. But fall trips, I’m your guy. Columbus day weekend on the Blackstone River and former Superfund site…I’m in. December further down the Blackstone on a sit on top kayak, who cares if you’re sitting in cold river water all day? I don’t. It doesn’t have to be the Blackstone, there are many other fine rivers in Massachusetts and Rhode Island. All with their post-industrial, polluted history. I love them all.
The gang, the guys, or as we call ourselves the BVARS (Blackstone Valley Aquatic Recreation Society), a bunch of guys, with all the responsibilities that come with careers, families and middle age. We can’t wait to sneak off and paddle for a couple of days and go camping. The rivers in question sometimes run through towns and even a city or two. Yet, with the exception of the most urban areas, you wouldn’t know you were only a few hundred yards from civilization.
Toward the end of the day’s paddling, or sometimes in the dark. Our flotilla of brightly colored canoes and kayaks pull up to the bank of some island or another. We drag our gear and hulls on shore and then set up camp. Some guys like tents, some prefer to sleep under the stars. It rains more often than not. We take turns cooking meals. Each guy taking pride, and if truth must be told, trying outdo the other. Adult beverages are consumed, and we generally act like overgrown adolescents. It is a glorious break from adult life. I might even suggest it is a necessary one.
The gang, the guys, or as we call ourselves the BVARS (Blackstone Valley Aquatic Recreation Society), a bunch of guys, with all the responsibilities that come with careers, families and middle age. We can’t wait to sneak off and paddle for a couple of days and go camping.
I went on my first canoe trip in 1997. It was fun but I wasn’t hooked. It was a cool trip and fun but I wasn’t in love. I was interested but it was far from the three kayaks and canoe purchased and sometimes given away place in life I’m at now.
It was the second canoe trip the hooked me. Three of us went. The first night it rained as though the gods themselves were trying to discourage us. But we had a good campsite and a roaring fire. The next day was marked by dumping and being dragged down the now much higher and colder river. We eventually recovered and changed clothes. Then promptly ran a small set of rapids backwards. Don’t ask, just believe.
I still wasn’t hooked. I was having a great time though. The last day involved a portage around a dam and a chance to run the Blackstone Gorge, which if you care about such things are Class II-III rapids. My partner in the bow was exactly one canoe trip less experienced than me. It was a touch ambitious. We started our run by T-boning our much more experienced friend and driving force behind the BVARS. He managed not to topple in the river, and we were off faster than the Flume at Rocky Point.
We rode the rapids and managed to stay in the boat. Sure, we were wet and just when we thought we made it safely through we were in another set of rapids to run. It was late afternoon, and the waning October sun wasn’t offering much in the way of warmth for two, wet paddlers. We came around a bend in the river, almost a right angle and were facing what looked like a fifty-foot-high wall of foliage as far as the eye could see. Red, yellow, orange leaves, lit up by the last, brightest bit of afternoon sunshine. It was breathtaking and seemed to go on forever. And right then, I was hooked.
