GAB

This is like Chinese water torture, it keeps drip, drip, dripping. 

We are day one into our five-day canoe trip and I am not going to make it at this rate. We are the only two singles in our group so it was a done deal that we share a canoe. I bagged the rear seat, bad mistake, because his chatter washes back to me on our self-generated breeze. Who can talk, without drawing breath, while paddling? He can.

I canoe for peace and quiet and it seems that there is going to be little of that. A canoe is not a place for headphones, as in noise cancelling ones, because they are not waterproof. Might be worth the risk though tomorrow. No, the point of the trip is to escape technology, enjoy the sounds of the river and be in the moment. Still, I would kill right now for my headphones. I must rethink our seating arrangement for tomorrow. Deliberate acts of sabotage to the canoe are even entering my head.

The group navigates today without incident, without a murder happening in our canoe. Come late afternoon we pull the canoes out and set up camp for the night. Gratitude washes over me as I put up my small hiking tent. Never was I so happy to have so little space. He is bunking in with some of our mates, I bet they have pillows ready to put over their ears.

We have dinner around the campfire, sharing our war stories. Then it is off to bed. Silence. My last thought before giving in to sleep was that he hardly spoke around the fire, or over dinner.

We changed seats the next day, him taking the rear and me up forward. It is necessary to communicate when paddling - left, right, back or side slips can be tricky if you don’t. I avoid any conversation, shouting out the barest of instructions to him. It does not work. I now know his entire life story.

Again he speaks little tonight. I pay particular attention to this aberrance. Puzzled, and more than a little curious, I ask one of my friends what she thinks of him.

‘Priceless’, she replies. ‘You couldn’t get anyone better to have a great discussion with. He listens to you, takes notice of stuff.’ I leave it at that, now is not the time to take it any further. It does seem though that I am missing something.

That second night I promise to myself, as I pull my sleeping bag around me, to make more of an effort tomorrow. I could be more respectful, less dismissive perhaps. New day and all that stuff.

Day three and he starts with the questions as soon as we pull away from the bank. My first reaction is to shrug and make out that I cannot hear him. Then, remembering my promise of the night before, I ask him to repeat what he said. He does so, and waits for my response. Then there is quiet, as in the absence of speech.

I take my time to answer him, expecting at any moment that he will start up again to fill the silence. No, he waits. I am borderline rude by drawing this out and mentally slap my wrist for being so naughty. And so we start a genuine conversation, complete with moments of quiet contemplation. He says next to nothing to me around the fire that night. I crawl into bed that night, lonely and slighted.

Day four on the river and we talk as if we have known each other our whole lives. Lots of pensive, companionable pauses. Plenty of vigorous debate and laughter. Tonight he sleeps in my tent and I do not begrudge the sound of him next to me. 

Day five we hit the water. Hit it hard. We misjudge the current between a run of rocks and tip the canoe over. The fast flowing river throws us against rocks and snags. We struggle to the bank and take stock of our situation.  Our friends paddle back upstream to see if they can retrieve our canoe. No luck, the rocks have punched a huge hole in it. They set off downstream aiming to get to our last campsite and our cars. They will come back for us. Cold and wretched, we try our best to keep warm while we wait for their return.

It takes me some time to realise that he is not right. His balance is off, when he speaks slurs his words. All he wants to do is sleep. He has to stay awake; I have to keep him awake. What comes from my mouth is astounding - to both of us. Who ever thought that I could gab continuously like that. I argue, cajole, tell stories and devise quizzes. I beg for him to talk, to keep talking to me.

By the time our friends get back to us he is not in good shape. He is conscious but only just. Our friends hurry to put rugs around us and then some carry him to a car. Another picks up our discarded vests and helmets. His helmet is in pieces, limp, shattered. A sense of urgency, and dread, now hangs over us.

That was many months ago. He has been in hospital ever since that last day on the river. Head shaved and bandaged, his speech has been slow to return. He is articulate, he can gather and write down his thoughts. Enunciating the words is the difficult part for him.

Today he is being discharged and I am taking him home to my place. It turns out to be quite the process picking him up. He has made friends around the wards and there are many to thank. His doctor leaves me with final instructions - he must talk, as much as he can bear to. Practice, he needs lots of practice.

There is no need to tell me this, all I want is to hear him prattle on. To hear the drip, drip, drip of it again. It will not now, or ever again, be torture to my ears.

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