Anathem

My butt is going to fall off.

Carbon fibre paddle tapping the water, my entire body wobbling in the slim, wooden kayak. The water around me ripples as I shake and tremble in my seat.

“Woah, damn, Haven. Going to capsize?” Liz zooms past me, flaunting her stability in the boat. 

“Shut. Up.”

Liz laughs. “Aw, Haven’s being a little grumpy queen again!” 

I wish to the heavens that they give her what she deserves and seconds later, they do. From her side, a junior fails to stop properly and crashes into her. 

“K1 watch out!” She growls at the poor boy, and with good reason; crashing boats merits an individual hundred and fifty pushups and occasionally an extra hundred for the team.

Leisure kayaking is fun----if we had been doing it. But this is competitive kayaking, where on a good day, the boats are thinner than the average chair, your ass gets squeezed to dust, balancing is akin to tightroping, and peeing in the reservoir is as common as seeing a loner in Starbucks.

I tap the water some more, then dig the paddle into the water and propel myself forward. The program today is thirteen kilometres in two hours. Half an hour has gone and I’m barely on my second kilometre. Liz tries to get me to capsize, teasing and joking and generally being an asshole--but she loses interest in me easy enough and moves on to finish the lap before she gets punished.

Today’s wind flies at 27 kilometres an hour. My hair is flying in my mouth and the wind is pushing me backward. Every stroke is pretty much futile.

There is a cry and a splash behind me and it takes all my willpower not to turn. Seeing someone capsize is as good as capsizing yourself.

But then there’s a loud, dreaded purring of an engine and I can’t help but curse my luck. The speedboat creates a radius of waves of not only water but capsizing boats. 

“Please, please, don’t let me capsize.” I speed up, but before I know it the speedboat is next to me, the resulting waves literally jumping over my boat and sloshing into my seat as I swear and swear some more.

My kayak tilts; I smash my paddle onto the water, try to right myself, my entire body clenching from the rush of adrenaline.

Then I flip, the kayak flipping with me, and I’m plunged into the shit-and-pee infested, dark, murky waters of the reservoir.

I can recite the SOP of capsizing in my sleep:

Flip the boat. The longer it stays upside down, the more water streams in, the higher the chances you’re going to sink five grand.

Get everything that floated out of your boat. Water bottle, paddle, etc.

Assess the situation. How far are you from the nearest pontoon? The worst area to ever capsize in was the middle of the five hundred mark and one kilometre mark. That would be swimming while dragging a floating nine kg weight for two hundred and fifty metres either way.

I break the surface of the water, breathe deep to replace the lost air in my lungs. The boat floats idly beside me. Yes, human, dare ride me again? 

I lash an arm around the bow, when a piercing pain shoots up my ankle. Pain like fire, like there are needles stabbing at my foot. My vision goes red for a second. I gasp in shock. In pain. 

Get up on the boat. Come on, come on. I flip the boat, grab my paddle and bottle and chuck both into the boat. My hands are shaking. The pain has not receded. It throbs, crashing over me again and again like waves. It’s mind numbing and it makes me want to scream.

Something soft curls around my foot and starts to drag me down. I latch onto the boat, muscles straining against the unseen force. What the hell? Never, never, have I ever heard of this kind of thing happening in the reservoir; dozens of schools, thousands of students, and out of all the kayakers and canoeists, why is this happening only now?

The bow tips down into the water; the stern is rising. Whatever is pulling me is winning. My shirt rides up. My shorts billow with water.

I’m going to drown.

The water creeps up to my chin and tickles my jawline.

I’m going to die.

Water laps at my lips. If I don’t do something now, I’m as good as dead.

I take in a deep breath, and scream. 

The first kayaker is here in seconds. He stops by me, jamming his paddle into the water. “Are you okay?”

“Help,” my voice comes out in a raw croak. “Something’s pulling me down.” As I say this, the force drags me down a little more and water enters my lips. I spit it out, purse my lips together. The boy’s eyes widen and he reaches for me. I reach out for him and our hands encircle each other’s wrists.

“Shit!” The boy gasps as he almost capsizes. “Help! Someone’s drowning!” He yells, knuckles white on my arm.

The next person who comes is Liz. “What’s happening?” I’m trembling all over. The boy sees this and explains the situation quickly to Liz.

 “Haven, oh god, you’re so pale.” She grabs my other arm. “Coach! Coach! We need help!” Liz’s water voice carries across the entire reservoir.

The weight of whatever it is is becoming heavier on my legs, and the pain intensifies. I cry out. I think I’m crying but I don’t know. I’m going into a state of hysteria. It’s work, trying to get air into my lungs. I hear shouting, yelling, then a pair of large hands, sliding under my arms and pulling me out of the water.

The pressure on my leg eases and dissipates. “Breathe.” I hear Liz demand in my ear. Deep breath. Nice and slow.

I was definitely crying. My eyes are puffy. Coach has plopped me at the back of a double junior kayak, eliminating all chances that I’m going to capsize. 

“Let me see your leg.” I stick my leg out of the boat, still too tired to look. Chances were, it was perfectly fine. Maybe I just had a panic attack, or there was a fish on my leg, or-

“Oh my god!” Liz gasps.

Or maybe not.

“Should I look?” I turn to Liz wearily, pointedly turning my gaze from my leg. Liz shakes her head firmly.

“Bring her back as fast as you can.” Coach tells the person sitting at the front of the kayak. “Haven, the moment you’re on shore I’ll carry you back to the shed. I don’t know what’s going to happen from there but I’m going to need you to calm down and keep a cool head.” To the boy who first helped me: “Get your coach to round up your entire school and inform the Canoe Federation. All water activites have to stop for now.”

“Come on, come on.” Coach slides her arms under me the moment the kayak touches the pontoon. Liz is there, too. As I’m being picked up, I just catch sight of the blood swirling around the boat. Is it really that bad?

Every step Coach takes is a throb in my ankle. I want to see what is going on but the only thing I see is the cloudless sky. It would have been a beautiful day.

If not for this.

Coach sets me down in front of the boat shed, which is a small structure in which we put our boats, bags, and miscellaneous stuff like screws, bolts and duct tape. 

“Get me the first aid box,” she tells Liz as she places my leg on her lap. For the first time, my ankle is in full sight.

And it isn’t looking pretty. There are two puncture wounds on my ankle, the edges red and slightly puffy. The wound goes down so deep I can see my flesh, and blood dribbles out of my wound. I’m beginning to get a little lightheaded. Blood was never really my thing, if it could be anybody’s thing at all.

Liz comes back with the first aid kit, but I know before she opens it that there won’t be anything in there. I remember checking it before and finding nothing but a bottle of contaminated iodine and a couple of dirty Band-Aids.

Sure enough, Coach curses when the box reveals a couple of mud encrusted wrappers and some black mold. “Oh man, it’s going to get infected.” Liz snaps the box shut. Coach takes a bottle out from the shed and tips it over my foot.

“No!” I yelp and cover the wound with my hands. The water splashes over my hands and drip to the floor but it doesn’t touch my ankle. “Haha, uh, I think I’m fine. You don’t have to wash it.” I grin sheepishly. The puncture is still throbbing, and my stomach turns when I think of the pain the water will bring.

Coach rolls her eyes, pushes my hands away (No!), and dumps the water on my ankle.

So.

Much.

Pain.

I whine and squeal, trying not to shout. I’m crying, the tears mixing with the reservoir water on my face. The pain is concentrated mostly in those two little holes in my ankle, the stinging-to-the-point-of-decapitation, bone-aching, flesh-eating kind of pain.

Coach sighs and turns to Liz. 

“Bring her home.”

*

    I come home to an empty house. Mom’s on shift, Dad’s overseas. Liz lowers me onto the couch. She’d carried me all the way on and off the bus, and she has no idea how grateful I am for it.

    “Let me get the first aid kit.” Liz also knows my house inside out. How else does she get the Oreos when she comes for sleepovers?

    My head falls on the back of the couch. The pain has settled down (although something tells me it’s going to come up to say hi for a while later) and I’m okay, really, just a little traumatized. And wet, of course. Oh shit. I look down to see the new sofa covered in reservoir water. I run my hand down my face. Sure. Mom’s going to be so delighted to hear I’d ruined her prize furniture.

    “Eat.” Liz tosses a pack of biscuits at me. There are times she’s a prick, but there are times like now that she’s like Mother Teresa. I rip open the pack of biscuits, not caring I’m making a mess (if I’m going to get killed for the water, what difference does a couple of crumbs make?) as I watch Liz bandage my ankle. Poorly, of course. When she’s done, she wipes her brows and plops beside me. I appraise the bandage and grin.

    “I love how you used your toes to bandage this.”

    Liz smacks my arm. “Jesus. I was going to ask if you’re okay, but considering the fact that you can criticize my bandaging skills, I supposed you’re fine, you little bi-” I stuff a cookie in her mouth. 

“Do you hear that?” I twirl my fingers in the air. “That wonderful music? I think it’s called…” I make a show of thinking hard as Liz rolls her eyes. She knows what’s coming.

 “Silence.” I smirk and tap her on the nose. Liz shakes her head at me. “Haha. Very funny.”

“Is that the only comeback you can think of? Really?” I act disgusted. “Shoo. Oh my god, we can’t be seen together anymore.” Liz ignores me. She’s used to my crazy, which usually turns to full on insane when I’m tired, and right now, I’m exhausted. 

I sigh, close my eyes. So tired…

I must have slept, because when I wake up, there’s a note on the table beside me and no sign of Liz, except for a steaming bowl of hot noodles. I grab the note first, because, well, note?

Hey Hav,

    You knocked out in five minutes. Seriously, are you that tired? Anyway, I cooked dinner for you. Your mom ain’t going to come home till real late. She called. I told her you were asleep. You should eat quick then go to sleep. 

And for god's sakes, shower. My nose nearly fell of sitting next to you. 

-If-you-didn’t-know-me-dishonour-on-you-your-family-and-your-cow.

    I laugh at her sign-off before sniffing my clothes. Yup, I smell like fresh crap. Incredible, the perks of canoeing.

    After a particularly reinvigorating and odour-removing shower, I gobble down the noodles. They are bouncy, a little salty, and very good. Liz is a very good cook, a skill that has saved me from starvation more than once.

    When I’m done, it’s eleven at night. I wash the dishes, limping as I move about. My ankle doesn’t hurt much anymore, although every now and then it sends an arrow of pain shooting up my leg. Well, I think, at least now I can write a little more accurately about pain.

    So I’m a writer. I love writing, and I’m a weird little creature. Undesirable symptoms of writing include talking to myself, pulling faces to try to understand the character’s feeling btu accidentally doing it in front of the class, sudden heart palpitation when the teacher mentions the word ‘write’ and lastly getting weird looks from people when I can belt out all the symptoms of a morphine overdose. All those symptoms have, actually, been limiting my friend intake, but I’m fine with that. Introvert, you see.

    I don’t have homework due tomorrow, but even if I did, I wouldn’t have done it. I have a very strong opinion against homework, which means homework is pretty low on my list of priorities. Who cares about sheets of paper that isn’t going to mean shit in the grand scheme of life? 

    Before I go to sleep, I probe my foot through the thick swath of bandages. My thumb kneads its way gently down my ankle until something like a hundred knives pierce my foot and I stop.

    I’m asleep before I hit the pillow. My eyes fall shut so fast it must be record-breaking. I curl up in my silk pajamas. The silk pajamas are important.

    Because when I wake up the next day, I am definitely not wearing silks.My butt is going to fall off.

Carbon fibre paddle tapping the water, my entire body wobbling in the slim, wooden kayak. The water around me ripples as I shake and tremble in my seat.

“Woah, damn, Haven. Going to capsize?” Liz zooms past me, flaunting her stability in the boat. 

“Shut. Up.”

Liz laughs. “Aw, Haven’s being a little grumpy queen again!” 

I wish to the heavens that they give her what she deserves and seconds later, they do. From her side, a junior fails to stop properly and crashes into her. 

“K1 watch out!” She growls at the poor boy, and with good reason; crashing boats merits an individual hundred and fifty pushups and occasionally an extra hundred for the team.

Leisure kayaking is fun----if we had been doing it. But this is competitive kayaking, where on a good day, the boats are thinner than the average chair, your ass gets squeezed to dust, balancing is akin to tightroping, and peeing in the reservoir is as common as seeing a loner in Starbucks.

I tap the water some more, then dig the paddle into the water and propel myself forward. The program today is thirteen kilometres in two hours. Half an hour has gone and I’m barely on my second kilometre. Liz tries to get me to capsize, teasing and joking and generally being an asshole--but she loses interest in me easy enough and moves on to finish the lap before she gets punished.

Today’s wind flies at 27 kilometres an hour. My hair is flying in my mouth and the wind is pushing me backward. Every stroke is pretty much futile.

There is a cry and a splash behind me and it takes all my willpower not to turn. Seeing someone capsize is as good as capsizing yourself.

But then there’s a loud, dreaded purring of an engine and I can’t help but curse my luck. The speedboat creates a radius of waves of not only water but capsizing boats. 

“Please, please, don’t let me capsize.” I speed up, but before I know it the speedboat is next to me, the resulting waves literally jumping over my boat and sloshing into my seat as I swear and swear some more.

My kayak tilts; I smash my paddle onto the water, try to right myself, my entire body clenching from the rush of adrenaline.

Then I flip, the kayak flipping with me, and I’m plunged into the shit-and-pee infested, dark, murky waters of the reservoir.

I can recite the SOP of capsizing in my sleep:

Flip the boat. The longer it stays upside down, the more water streams in, the higher the chances you’re going to sink five grand.

Get everything that floated out of your boat. Water bottle, paddle, etc.

Assess the situation. How far are you from the nearest pontoon? The worst area to ever capsize in was the middle of the five hundred mark and one kilometre mark. That would be swimming while dragging a floating nine kg weight for two hundred and fifty metres either way.

I break the surface of the water, breathe deep to replace the lost air in my lungs. The boat floats idly beside me. Yes, human, dare ride me again? 

I lash an arm around the bow, when a piercing pain shoots up my ankle. Pain like fire, like there are needles stabbing at my foot. My vision goes red for a second. I gasp in shock. In pain. 

Get up on the boat. Come on, come on. I flip the boat, grab my paddle and bottle and chuck both into the boat. My hands are shaking. The pain has not receded. It throbs, crashing over me again and again like waves. It’s mind numbing and it makes me want to scream.

Something soft curls around my foot and starts to drag me down. I latch onto the boat, muscles straining against the unseen force. What the hell? Never, never, have I ever heard of this kind of thing happening in the reservoir; dozens of schools, thousands of students, and out of all the kayakers and canoeists, why is this happening only now?

The bow tips down into the water; the stern is rising. Whatever is pulling me is winning. My shirt rides up. My shorts billow with water.

I’m going to drown.

The water creeps up to my chin and tickles my jawline.

I’m going to die.

Water laps at my lips. If I don’t do something now, I’m as good as dead.

I take in a deep breath, and scream. 

The first kayaker is here in seconds. He stops by me, jamming his paddle into the water. “Are you okay?”

“Help,” my voice comes out in a raw croak. “Something’s pulling me down.” As I say this, the force drags me down a little more and water enters my lips. I spit it out, purse my lips together. The boy’s eyes widen and he reaches for me. I reach out for him and our hands encircle each other’s wrists.

“Shit!” The boy gasps as he almost capsizes. “Help! Someone’s drowning!” He yells, knuckles white on my arm.

The next person who comes is Liz. “What’s happening?” I’m trembling all over. The boy sees this and explains the situation quickly to Liz.

 “Haven, oh god, you’re so pale.” She grabs my other arm. “Coach! Coach! We need help!” Liz’s water voice carries across the entire reservoir.

The weight of whatever it is is becoming heavier on my legs, and the pain intensifies. I cry out. I think I’m crying but I don’t know. I’m going into a state of hysteria. It’s work, trying to get air into my lungs. I hear shouting, yelling, then a pair of large hands, sliding under my arms and pulling me out of the water.

The pressure on my leg eases and dissipates. “Breathe.” I hear Liz demand in my ear. Deep breath. Nice and slow.

I was definitely crying. My eyes are puffy. Coach has plopped me at the back of a double junior kayak, eliminating all chances that I’m going to capsize. 

“Let me see your leg.” I stick my leg out of the boat, still too tired to look. Chances were, it was perfectly fine. Maybe I just had a panic attack, or there was a fish on my leg, or-

“Oh my god!” Liz gasps.

Or maybe not.

“Should I look?” I turn to Liz wearily, pointedly turning my gaze from my leg. Liz shakes her head firmly.

“Bring her back as fast as you can.” Coach tells the person sitting at the front of the kayak. “Haven, the moment you’re on shore I’ll carry you back to the shed. I don’t know what’s going to happen from there but I’m going to need you to calm down and keep a cool head.” To the boy who first helped me: “Get your coach to round up your entire school and inform the Canoe Federation. All water activites have to stop for now.”

“Come on, come on.” Coach slides her arms under me the moment the kayak touches the pontoon. Liz is there, too. As I’m being picked up, I just catch sight of the blood swirling around the boat. Is it really that bad?

Every step Coach takes is a throb in my ankle. I want to see what is going on but the only thing I see is the cloudless sky. It would have been a beautiful day.

If not for this.

Coach sets me down in front of the boat shed, which is a small structure in which we put our boats, bags, and miscellaneous stuff like screws, bolts and duct tape. 

“Get me the first aid box,” she tells Liz as she places my leg on her lap. For the first time, my ankle is in full sight.

And it isn’t looking pretty. There are two puncture wounds on my ankle, the edges red and slightly puffy. The wound goes down so deep I can see my flesh, and blood dribbles out of my wound. I’m beginning to get a little lightheaded. Blood was never really my thing, if it could be anybody’s thing at all.

Liz comes back with the first aid kit, but I know before she opens it that there won’t be anything in there. I remember checking it before and finding nothing but a bottle of contaminated iodine and a couple of dirty Band-Aids.

Sure enough, Coach curses when the box reveals a couple of mud encrusted wrappers and some black mold. “Oh man, it’s going to get infected.” Liz snaps the box shut. Coach takes a bottle out from the shed and tips it over my foot.

“No!” I yelp and cover the wound with my hands. The water splashes over my hands and drip to the floor but it doesn’t touch my ankle. “Haha, uh, I think I’m fine. You don’t have to wash it.” I grin sheepishly. The puncture is still throbbing, and my stomach turns when I think of the pain the water will bring.

Coach rolls her eyes, pushes my hands away (No!), and dumps the water on my ankle.

So.

Much.

Pain.

I whine and squeal, trying not to shout. I’m crying, the tears mixing with the reservoir water on my face. The pain is concentrated mostly in those two little holes in my ankle, the stinging-to-the-point-of-decapitation, bone-aching, flesh-eating kind of pain.

Coach sighs and turns to Liz. 

“Bring her home.”

*

    I come home to an empty house. Mom’s on shift, Dad’s overseas. Liz lowers me onto the couch. She’d carried me all the way on and off the bus, and she has no idea how grateful I am for it.

    “Let me get the first aid kit.” Liz also knows my house inside out. How else does she get the Oreos when she comes for sleepovers?

    My head falls on the back of the couch. The pain has settled down (although something tells me it’s going to come up to say hi for a while later) and I’m okay, really, just a little traumatized. And wet, of course. Oh shit. I look down to see the new sofa covered in reservoir water. I run my hand down my face. Sure. Mom’s going to be so delighted to hear I’d ruined her prize furniture.

    “Eat.” Liz tosses a pack of biscuits at me. There are times she’s a prick, but there are times like now that she’s like Mother Teresa. I rip open the pack of biscuits, not caring I’m making a mess (if I’m going to get killed for the water, what difference does a couple of crumbs make?) as I watch Liz bandage my ankle. Poorly, of course. When she’s done, she wipes her brows and plops beside me. I appraise the bandage and grin.

    “I love how you used your toes to bandage this.”

    Liz smacks my arm. “Jesus. I was going to ask if you’re okay, but considering the fact that you can criticize my bandaging skills, I supposed you’re fine, you little bi-” I stuff a cookie in her mouth. 

“Do you hear that?” I twirl my fingers in the air. “That wonderful music? I think it’s called…” I make a show of thinking hard as Liz rolls her eyes. She knows what’s coming.

 “Silence.” I smirk and tap her on the nose. Liz shakes her head at me. “Haha. Very funny.”

“Is that the only comeback you can think of? Really?” I act disgusted. “Shoo. Oh my god, we can’t be seen together anymore.” Liz ignores me. She’s used to my crazy, which usually turns to full on insane when I’m tired, and right now, I’m exhausted. 

I sigh, close my eyes. So tired…

I must have slept, because when I wake up, there’s a note on the table beside me and no sign of Liz, except for a steaming bowl of hot noodles. I grab the note first, because, well, note?

Hey Hav,

    You knocked out in five minutes. Seriously, are you that tired? Anyway, I cooked dinner for you. Your mom ain’t going to come home till real late. She called. I told her you were asleep. You should eat quick then go to sleep. 

And for god's sakes, shower. My nose nearly fell of sitting next to you. 

-If-you-didn’t-know-me-dishonour-on-you-your-family-and-your-cow.

    I laugh at her sign-off before sniffing my clothes. Yup, I smell like fresh crap. Incredible, the perks of canoeing.

    After a particularly reinvigorating and odour-removing shower, I gobble down the noodles. They are bouncy, a little salty, and very good. Liz is a very good cook, a skill that has saved me from starvation more than once.

    When I’m done, it’s eleven at night. I wash the dishes, limping as I move about. My ankle doesn’t hurt much anymore, although every now and then it sends an arrow of pain shooting up my leg. Well, I think, at least now I can write a little more accurately about pain.

    So I’m a writer. I love writing, and I’m a weird little creature. Undesirable symptoms of writing include talking to myself, pulling faces to try to understand the character’s feeling btu accidentally doing it in front of the class, sudden heart palpitation when the teacher mentions the word ‘write’ and lastly getting weird looks from people when I can belt out all the symptoms of a morphine overdose. All those symptoms have, actually, been limiting my friend intake, but I’m fine with that. Introvert, you see.

    I don’t have homework due tomorrow, but even if I did, I wouldn’t have done it. I have a very strong opinion against homework, which means homework is pretty low on my list of priorities. Who cares about sheets of paper that isn’t going to mean shit in the grand scheme of life? 

    Before I go to sleep, I probe my foot through the thick swath of bandages. My thumb kneads its way gently down my ankle until something like a hundred knives pierce my foot and I stop.

    I’m asleep before I hit the pillow. My eyes fall shut so fast it must be record-breaking. I curl up in my silk pajamas. The silk pajamas are important.

    Because when I wake up the next day, I am definitely not wearing silks.