Skip overhears me, and chortles. “I think you mispronounced ‘heaven,’ my dear!” He raises his voice and stands on the bench to project to the entire group. “One hour until our canoes shove off!”
The entire group issues a collective, hangover-tinged groan that reverberates through the wilderness all the way to Chicago.
“That,” Skip scolds us, “isnotthe sound of teamwork.”
After a breakfast feastof rubberized eggs and blackened Texas toast, Skip begins unloading paddles and life vests from his van. Pen is hissing something at Calliope, while Josh tries to calm her down.Thought we were going to a spa, and,I’mnotcanoeing, carry on the wind. Something in Penelope’s frustration sounds like music. A tiny dose of consequence-free comeuppance.
The chill has burned off and the sun warms anything it touches to what could be an August day. One last day of summer—a rare gift from the Midwest weather deities.
An eight-wheeled pickup truck pulls up to the campsite, with a hitch of canoes attached to the back.
“OUR CHARIOTS HATH ARRIVED!”Skip roars in his best Gerard Butler impression.
A woman hops out of the driver’s seat, bedecked in a trucker hat, flannel, and jorts. There’s an old man with stark white hair in the passenger seat, sitting in silence like a ghost. Or a serial killer.
“Everyone,” Skip announces, “this is Daisy.” The woman, with a tan that appears to have been developed over millenia, waves. “Don’t let the name fool you, she will flay you alive if anything happens to her canoes.”
Daisy begins listing what ‘anything’ entails: “No oar fights. No races. No bumper cars. No. Funny. Business.” She punctuates these final three words with a menacing, knife-tip glare. “Understood?”
The group murmurs our assent.
“Daisy and her dad will be helping us transport everything to our next campsite. Now, remember!” Skip holds up his hands. “Leave no trace! Make sure your tent is packed, trash is disposed of properly, and everything is loaded into Bessie!
“Two people per canoe. Every canoe gets one watertight bag for anything you want to bring in the water with you. Swimsuits are encouraged on this beee-YOU-tiful day! We willnotbe responsible for any items lost in the Au Sable, so pack smart. Not every moment needs to be captured on a cell phone!”
Pen hisses louder, like a wasp. Josh is performing a deep tissue massage in an effort to keep his fiancée calm and assure her that this will be fun. “It’s like summer camp!” he says, over and over. “LikeParent Trap!”
Calliope has drifted away from Pen, sensing a nuclear meltdown and not looking too broken up about it. Our eyes catch and we nod at each other, silently agreeing to share a canoe.
At least the time in the canoe is guaranteed to be Eitan-free.
“Oh! And don’t forget your Outventures signature blend of G.O.R.P.!” The stares are blank, the silence telling. “Granola, Oats, Raisins, and Peanuts.” Skip shakes his head at us. “It’s like you’ve never been outside before.”
I relish the silence of the far side of the campground, reducing the tent back to a zipped-up tube.
“Load the bags!” Skip projects from Bessie’s side. “If bags don’t make it onto the van, they don’t make it to the next campsite! Once your bags are loaded, take an oar and a life vest and line up at the dock.” He becomes a broken record, the same spiel on repeat for five minutes.
I walk back to Bessie, wearing a one piece with a windbreaker on my top half, depositing our tent and sleeping bags. I dig around the huge boxes of gear for a size small neon green life vest. When I turn around, buckling it, Eitan’s gaze scrapes over my bare legs. His attention is like steam billowing around me, making me buzz, overheat. He clears his throat and wanders away.
Eitan-free time, I remind myself.
The oars are metal with plastic paddles. I test out the weight in my hand, spinning it over my wrist.
“No funny business.” Daisy spots me.
I lower it to my side. “No ma’am.” I nod.
Calliope stands against the van, her forehead pressing into the side.
“You okay?” I ask.
She shakes her head, and turns around. Her face is way too pale, her arms wrapping around her middle. A panicked hand shoots up to her mouth.
“Shit—” I look around for a bucket or a trash bag. It’s too late. I barely get Calliope’s hair out of the way before she retches right there, next to the van. When she stands back up, she looks worse. I catch Andres’s eye and he joins us, moving Calliope’s hair out of the way to feel her forehead. She smiles at him, dreamily, like she’s hallucinating.
She burps. “Oopsies,” she mumbles.
“What’s wrong?” Eitan asks, joining us too.
