Heather's Story
The sky started out overcast on July 30, 2000 as I pulled into the meeting spot. I thought back to earlier that summer when my best friend, Rachel, had dragged me to the Deerfield River to take me whitewater rafting. I remember being petrified that I was going to fall out of the raft, and probably didn’t actually help much with the paddling that day. At the end of the Dryway, though, I was hooked. Today would be my fourth time on the river, and I was elated. I parked at the McDonalds and got out of the car. Everyone was inside, so I entered the fast food joint with my usual disdain and found Al, the AMC guru who led almost all of the rafting trips. We talked some, then went outside to wait for the family who was last on the list to arrive. After 15 minutes or so, Al said to me, “do you know four people who might want to go rafting today?” I thought instantly of Rachel, and borrowed a cell phone to call her up. After a few minutes of discussion, she told me that she’d meet us at the take-out.
To be honest, I don’t remember the exact order of events. Barry caught my attention when he approached me at the put-in. His question caught me off guard and made me realize right away that he was one of those caring types, for he fingered the Magen David around my neck and asked me, “Is this going to be safe?” I quickly took the time to drink in his features as I told him yes. The shape of his face was captivating – almost heart-like – and his hairstyle accentuated his cheekbones. The green of his eyes were startling, and I was instantly infatuated. He reminded me of a lucky elf.
When we were taking turns to inflate the rafts at the put-in, I went over to Rachel. “Hey Rach,” I tried to sound casual, but it didn’t work, “is Barry Jewish?” She gave me this look of know-all and replied affirmatively, then said, “but he’s totally crushed out on Deborah.” Sighing, I went away to take my turn at inflating the raft. Just my luck. I meet a cute, Jewish boy on the river, and he’s already interested in Rachel’s sister. I decided it was all for the better. After all, I was at the river that day with my summer fling, whom I had met on the river earlier that summer.
The seven of us climbed into a raft together, Travis, the boy I was kind-of seeing, Barry, Deborah, Rachel, Steve, the AMC raft guide, and I, when the time had come to begin our voyage. All riders were all somewhat experienced with paddling, as Rachel, Steve, and Barry were all whitewater kayakers, Travis paddled an open canoe, and Deborah and I had spent the summer in rafts. Barry spent much of the time yapping away – so obviously trying to impress Deborah – about his vast experience on the Dryway. Many moons ago, he would tell us, he spent most weekends of the summer coming out to the Deerfield to paddle, getting high on the exhilaration of running his kayak down the class III-IV river. This many moons ago was only about ten or so, but the point was clear; he’d been paddling for a while now, and he was going to strut his stuff.
Part of the glory of going on an AMC trip is the being uniquely involved in all processes as you head down river. Not only do you get to help blow up the rafts, but you also get to help bail out all of the water that makes its way into your boat, chilling your skin and soaking your toes. As we waited in the long snake of rafts awaiting their turns to head down one of the rapids, Barry took the bail bucket and effortlessly removed a majority of the water from our boat. You could see all of his shoulder and arm muscles moving with each sweep of motion from floor to over-the-side, for he wore nothing on his torso but his fire-engine red personal floatation device, or life jacket. As you observe from my obvious awareness of his presence, his actions did not go unnoticed. Our highlighted gentleman of the story to this day will insist that his intentional bailing out of the water action was made to attract my attention as well as Deborah’s, but I’m highly skeptical.
The rapids seemed suspended in time that afternoon. As we finished the day by lugging the boats up the bank to the take-out parking lot, I wanted so much to run the river with the group again. It was wonderful being on a trip where we all knew the importance of the saying “your paddle is waterproof,” and the company – even with all of his showing off – didn’t hurt either. As I left the parking lot, there was this grey feeling that I would never see Barry again. I saw his face in my daydreams when I went rafting the next time a couple weeks later, but I convinced myself that I wasn’t about to drool over a frog when there were so many other tadpoles in the river.
My school year started at the end of August, when I began instructing the high school marching band’s color guard. And the night that the second chapter of our story begins was an exhaustingly long day. Not only did I teach from eight am to five pm, I then had a meeting with my team teacher to discuss that year’s start of the school curriculum. By the time I made my way to Rachel’s house for her birthday party, I was tired, sweaty, and grumpy. The last thing I expected to see was Barry sitting on the futon chair when I first walked in the house. He had one leg up on the futon with his arm resting on his knee. I tried to hide my surprise when I saw him, and immediately regretted my rag-a-muffin appearance. I walked past Barry to hug Rachel hello and wish her a happy birthday, and then gave a hug to Steve, who was sitting next to Rachel on a couch adjacent to Barry.
As the night progressed into morning, I found myself fighting between trying to impress this man I knew so little about and trying to convince myself that I wasn’t attracted to him. As Barry filled our heads with Feldenkrais, I pointed my toes as I used to when I danced, where while my heels rested casually on the floor and my feet would stretch into bridge-shaped arches until my toes touched comfortably on the ground. I wasn’t so much paying attention to what he was trying to have us do, and in all honesty, I don’t even remember what it was that Barry was trying to have us understand. All I remember is that he kept telling me I was doing too much, and I kept completely ignoring him, thinking that he might be amazed about this random ability.
Eventually, Rachel and Steve decided to retire for the night. We said our good-byes, and when I was about to pack up and head to my car, Barry – who I think was spending the night at Rachel & Steve’s – asked me if I wanted to go for a walk. It was eleven pm, but time suspended itself for a moment, and I jumped at this opportunity. I also jumped at the chance to ask about his current love life. We were not even fully out the door when I asked him, “so, are you and Deborah hooked up yet?”
The deep purple sky gradually turned to a dull yellow as we spent a long and wonderful night walking around the quaint little town where Rachel and Steve lived. At five in the morning, I finally forced myself to say goodbye. And while my body was teaching color guard a few hours later, my head was in Boston, waiting for the phone call that Barry promised to make to me that evening. The chat would be the first of many late night phone conversations that would keep us connected over the one hundred miles of distance between us.
The setting sun the following Friday, on September 1, 2000, brought with it a knock on my door. It was the perfect beginning of Shabbat when I opened the door to Barry, who had come to stay with me and take me down the river again, this time in a kayak. And it was the perfect beginning to our next story, where “How We Met” ends, and “Five Years of a Long Distance Relationship” begins.