The switchbacks on the gravel road raise clouds of dust that sift into the old bus windows. The window in front of us drops into its aluminum casings with a clatter as we round a corner, and the pair of women in the seat ahead of us surge to their feet to close it, laughing and coughing and batting the dirt off of each other’s clothes.
I examine their thin, wrinkled necks and frosted hair and narrow my eyes. They look like someone’s grandmas. They can’t be transgender or transsexual people, or whatever Treva calls it.
I’m not surprised that Justin’s staring at them suspiciously. When our eyes meet, he gives me a slight shrug and goes back to his examination, as if determined to discover … something.
We’re surrounded by a sea of zinc-slicked noses and sun visors, and I can’t help but stare, trying to figure out whose face might be fooling me, whose happy smile is a cover for a life that might surprise me. My count is shaky; I come up with first one, two, three, then revise my count to two, then four.
No one else on the bus seems concerned about anything. Everyone else is laughing and talking or looking out the windows. A couple of people are holding up cameras and snapping away, modeling their ugly life vests. I tamp down another surge of confusion, shaking my head at my silly thoughts. Everyone looks so normal! I keep wanting to exclaim.
Of course they do.
After what seems like miles of driving uphill, the bus suddenly pulls off the road into a narrow lane, and the driver sets the brake and kills the engine. The smallest kids whoop and begin unfastening their seat belts. Treva waves her arms for attention and moves toward the middle of the bus.
“Okay, people, listen up,” she calls, and the bus quiets some. “We’ll get out of the bus, we’ll stay off the road, and we’ll get into groups of six. If you’ve got a child under ten with you, you’ll need to make sure that you and that child are in Scooter’s or Ted’s group.” She points. Two big guys at the front of the bus stand and wave briefly before sitting down.
“Each group will have one guide, and a couple of them are already down with their rafts. The first thing you need to do when you get down there is fasten your life vests. Do NOT go into the water or do anything else without that life vest on. The second step is your helmet. No helmet, no raft! Buckle it on, folks. We’re going to have a good, safe time today, and everyone will have fun if you listen and follow the rules, capiche?”
There’s a general laugh as a few people respond to Treva’s rusty Godfather imitation. Then, with her leading the way, the general exodus begins.
Justin bounces his leg as people move down the aisle. Dad waves a hand, then is lost in the press of shoulders, backs, beach towels, and the thick cocoa butter scent of sunblock. The women in front of us stand, chattering comfortably as they step out into the aisle. I wait impatiently as they juggle their life jackets, water bottles, waist packs, and visors. Seeing us watching them, one of the ladies shoots me a conspiratorial smile.
“We’ve never tried white-water rafting before,” she confides giddily.
“Well, life is short,” Justin says sweetly. “Better get out there and give it a try.”
“Oh!” the woman exclaims, looking around and realizing that she’s blocking traffic in the narrow aisle. “Here we go.”
“Finally,” my brother mutters, leaping out of the bus and looking around.
“Where are we supposed to go?” I ask, slipping on my life jacket. Above us, a few thin clouds are whitening the sky, and it’s already gotten quite warm.
“Dad just waved at us,” Justin says, and I look around, finding him standing near a bright orange inflatable raft with Bethany and her father. Dad catches my eye and waves again.
“You want to go with him?” I ask as Beth and I watch each other uneasily.
“Fine. Let’s find someone else.” I start down the rock beach. “Maybe that Bethany chick will come. I have a few questions I’d like to ask her.”
Justin swivels his head toward me, panic in his expression. “Ysabel, if it’s a question like the one you asked Treva, forget it. You can’t ask people stuff like that.”
“I didn’t actually ask Treva anything,” I defend myself. “She volunteered.”
Justin shakes his head. “It doesn’t matter. Let’s just raft, okay?”
“I’m not completely stupid,” I insist. “I just wanted to ask her some questions. I mean, if she’s on this trip, she’s got to know something about this trans thing.” I lower my voice. “I promise not to embarrass you.”
Justin just grunts.
We’re almost to the rafts when we’re intercepted by a compact, black-haired girl in a red en|GNDR T-shirt. She shows a quick flash of white teeth as she smiles.
“I think you’re the rest of my crew. I’m Tarie Sabado.” She hands us each a black helmet. “Has either one of you done any river rafting before?”
“I can paddle a canoe,” I offer.
“Well, that’s a start,” Tarie laughs.
Tarie, our guide, drags us over to Bethany, and introduces us to two other guys, Connor and Marco, who fill up our six-person crew. Connor, who is tall and broad-shouldered with long-ish blond hair and a dimpled, good-natured grin, seems okay; at least he smiles. Marco just stares at us when we’re introduced and kind of grunts. While Tarie gives us a little safety lecture and tells us about paddling, Marco mutters something to Connor, who punches him and laughs silently, his fair skin turning red with the effort to keep quiet. I wonder if they’re a couple or if one or both of them is transgender. How does that work?
“Gentlemen?” Tarie’s voice is sweet, but the guys give her straight faces immediately.
“Sorry, Tarie,” Marco says meekly.
After a narrow-eyed look, Tarie starts talking again, and Marco and Connor start messing around again. I glance back at their smirking faces, weirdly reassured. Guys being guys is so boringly normal. Whatever else is unusual about this gathering, Marco and Connor are as normal as it gets.
We get the helmets on, a few of us climb in, and the others push the raft out to where it is floating. Tarie gives us a brief lesson on paddling, then we push off, the five of us seated precariously on the damp rubber ledges that double as seats, the guide on her own perch in the back.
Rafting is deceptively hard work. Digging into the clear water with the plastic orange blade of my paddle, I feel the burn of the muscles in my arms and across my back, and I work up a sweat. Rhythm and pacing and watching for rocks crowd out everything else from my mind. In a way, this reminds me of smithing: instead of banging a hammer against heated metal, I’m dipping a paddle in cadence. It’s swing—wait, swing—wait, all the same.
Bethany, sitting in front of me, gives a panicky scream as her paddle is almost wrenched from her hand by the current. My stomach swoops as the raft abruptly picks up speed and veers, surprising a shriek out of me. Everything feels out of control as we dip down into what seems like a hole in the water.
“Paddle! Don’t stop!” Tarie shouts, and I can hear the laughter in her voice as all of us make sounds of dismay.
“Dig!” Marco shouts from the front of the raft, and on his count, I dig in on the left. Connor digs in on the right, as does Justin, and Beth frantically alternates strokes. Pretty soon, the wild spinning takes on more of a definite direction, and we pop out of the hole—and head for what looks like a boulder.
“Lean!” everyone screams, and we all lean in different directions. No one is paddling anymore, and the raft begins to spin sideways.
“Right! Lean right!” Tarie hollers. I wrench myself to the right. We barely miss being plastered, scraping by the stone with frantic pushes from our oars. Fortunately, on the other side of the rock, the water slows. Our raft bobs in place for a moment, and we stare at each other with shocked expressions.
“I thought we were so dead,” Bethany gasps out.
“We almost were. Where the hell did that rock come from?” Marco’s face is slack.
It’s weird how speed jolts everything else out of your head. Now Marco and Connor turn from the bow and exchange shaky smiles with the rest of us like we’re all friends. Relief makes us a little giddy.
“You okay, Ys?” Justin’s grin is wide.
“I’m good,” I reassure him, adjusting my helmet. There’s a scrape on my arm where I got bushwhacked, but other than my accelerated pulse, I’m all in one piece.
“Okay, folks, that was just the warm-up,” Tarie warns us. “You gave me a heart attack with that rock, but you remembered to lean in time. Connor, you did a great job leading out—keep it up. Everybody ready?”
Even if we weren’t, it’s too late.
There’s nothing you can do when you’re on white-water rapids but get through the run you’re in, and the next one, and the next one. After the first two, my arms are shaking, and I realize I’ve been screaming. Other rafts flash by, spinning through the current. At one point, I hear Dad’s laugh and watch as he and Mr. Han lean into a turn and disappear.
At the end of the next run, Tarie laughs at our shaken expressions. “Rest up!” she shouts, her dark eyes electric with eagerness. “Bucktooth, comin’ atcha!”
All the rapids have such dumb names, like Beelzebub’s Blender, Spin Cycle, and The Maw. Between them, the water eddies along, slowed to a whisper of its roar, and we rub our arms and relax, talk excitedly about the near misses, the granite-walled scrapes, the branch whippings and stomach-clenching plunges and sheer terrors of the last run. And then, the water picks up speed again.
By the time we come to our fifth run, we find out that not everyone has fared so well. We come out of a narrow chute just after Churner, and we mount a rescue that includes a laughing couple of old dudes and some embarrassed girls, all of whom said that they’d rafted before. “It’s just bad luck,” they assure us cheerfully.
A mile or so later, we narrowly avoid colliding with another raft, filled with dripping riders. The group is boosting one last person back onto the raft. Among the bedraggled crew are the two ladies from the bus.
“Are you guys all right?” I yell, feeling a little guilty for being still mostly dry.
“We’re just fine,” the guide calls back. “We’ll dry out at dinner.”
“When is dinner, anyway?” Justin turns around to ask.
“It’s literally just around the bend,” Tarie reassures him.
“Land, ho!” Marco bellows. Tarie hollers and waves at the other guides, who are pulled in to a cove with a line of tables and some coolers set up near piles of bleached driftwood and big rocks.
“Thank God,” mutters Bethany. Her thin arms are crisscrossed with welts, and her ponytail is plastered to her sweaty back. We all look a little worse for wear.
I dump my helmet and jump out, eager to help the beaching crew, and just about manage to capsize the raft. Tarie has to wade downstream to recover my paddle, and my backpack gets a little wet, but eventually our raft is secured.
I’m grateful for the bins filled with packages of unscented wipes and antibacterial hand wash. A staff member points out the blue portable toilets high up the hill above the beach, and after a super-fast but necessary trip, I wipe down hands and bare, muddy legs and feel a little more human.
Bethany follows me to a driftwood log, hissing as she cleans her scratches.
“Beth!” Her father hurries over, his tanned face creased in concern. He squats next to us and peers at his daughter’s arm. “What happened? Those scratches look bad.”
“I’m fine,” Beth mutters, and I give her father a sympathetic smile.
“It’s from a bush,” I tell him. “It would have been worse if we’d hit that first rock.”
“How are you, Bel?” Dad’s knees are suddenly at my shoulder. “Ready for supper?”
“I’m waiting for Bethany,” I say, looking him over. His clothes are dry, and he appears only slightly rumpled and sweaty. “You guys didn’t tip?”
“Nah, we’re professionals,” Dad brags, stretching his arms above his head. “I could stay out here all the time, if it was always this nice. Let’s eat. We’ll save Beth a spot in line.”
“I’m coming now,” Bethany says quickly, standing. She scans her arms for additional scratches, then shoves her hands in her pockets.
“So, what happened to those arms, Beth?” Dad asks as he falls into step with us.
“We got sucked down a chute sideways,” Beth replies with a little shrug. “I got scraped into a tree. As long as it’s not poison ivy or something, I’ll be fine.”
Beth’s father, walking on the opposite side of her, frowns. “They don’t look fine. I want you to go to the first-aid table. They have antibacterial cream. You don’t want those to get infected.”
“They’re not that deep,” Bethany says stubbornly, crossing her arms, then wincing.
“That’s it.” Mr. Han grasps his daughter’s arm with gentle but insistent fingers. “We’ll catch up with you guys later. Beth is going to get these looked at.”
“Geez, Mom,” Bethany bursts out angrily. “Are you even listening? I said they’re fine.”
“We’re going to take five minutes to make sure you don’t end up with infected welts all over your arm,” Mr. Han retorts, and drags his protesting daughter away.
Mom?!
“Belly.” Dad’s voice is quiet.
I realize I’ve not only stopped walking, but I’m staring like a five-year-old. Quickly I turn away, hundreds of comments and observations crowding onto the tip of my tongue.
I close my mouth on all of them.
“Ready to eat?” Dad asks, his hand light on my shoulder.
“Mm-hmm,” I say, and keep walking.