Where were you?
Oh no!, was my first reaction. The event streamer that I had painstakingly worked on by hand – with Pentel Pens! -- the whole day of Sunday and Monday was gone. Stolen, I thought. Just as quickly, I thought proudly; that streamer should be good enough for stealing!
But going into the lobby, I saw it hanging over the musical instruments. I heaved a sigh of relief. I should have known. I knew there was going to be instruments, but Iwas surprised at the professional set up that it was. A drum kit, keyboard, mikes, speakers, lights; the works.
At half past eight we were ready. The instruments were getting tested. The musicians were moving among the instruments. It was a kind of musical chairs. You had to admire their versatility and it appeared to be a simple matter of course. There was no need for a sound check.
The crowd started gathering in front of the lobby columns of the administration building of UP Cebu, the site of the performance art memorial, Where Were You When Ninoy Was No.1? Some because they knew about the event and others because they were just attracted by the music and the lights in what would ordinarily be just another dark part of the campus at night.
The performance art group XO? which I actively collaborate were to have another of its performance events. It was one of the first events the group has planned that was specifically social-historical in theme.
Still, in our planning meetings, we expectedly moved towards our stylistic approaches or leanings based on experience and strengths.
Russ would do something with dance, Chai something with some song she would sing, Doggie something that was quite original and, at this point, surprising, since being a newbie to performance art, she has, of yet, no body of work for comparison.
I would do a concept-performance-installation piece and Raymund would be working with music, play the saxophone and provide the musical direction for the pieces that required music and among the musicians whose participation would also be another first for the group.
Phillip and Ivan were last minute participants. Ivan wouldn't show up at all and Phillip would eventually do a performance-installation piece we were not informed about. But it found a natural fit with the rest of the pieces.
Winston Velez, who had already worked with us in a previous performance event was instrumental in bringing in the musicians. He plays with them in a regular band. He said that this was opportunity for musicians to be exposed to the visual art and even to realize the art in their music.
It turned out that one of the musicians, Oliver, who plays base guitar, has a background in theater. In fact in troupes that was quite activist at that time.
For this event, two other musicians, Nonoi on the guitar and James on keyboards, would sit with us in meetings and rehearsals and they would have their taste of such idea or concept meetings that would typically meander from one trajectory to another then would suddenly explode as some idea gets latched on and planning around that would quickly develop.
In one of these, we had a glimpse of Winston's inventiveness – a definite plus with performance art. He grabbed an empty beer plastic case and proceeded to play it like it was a regular drum.
The crowd was admittedly quite sparse. Yet they were quite appreciative contributing a sizeable amount to a Cat In The Hat hat that would go towards paying for the instruments, audio equipment and the lights.
The music had not quite died down – already, by this time, the venue had moved to Turtle's Nest Book Cafe and percussive music was playing almost endlessly as musicians and guests had some kind of instrument in hand – and talk was already about another performance event for September 21.
Again, we had to remind ourselves that publicity should be the first order of the day. So, next time you shouldn't have any reason not to be there.
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
Wednesday, August 15, 2007
16.08.07 kulturnatib
Baguio's beacons
Until lasts week, the only time I had been to Baguio City was almost a quarter of a century ago. I don't remember much of that trip except about something that kept me from having much of anything to remember.
I was bedridden most of that time. I had the most severe sinus attack. I could hardly open my eyes for the pain. The friend with whom I took this trip became my eyes, ears and even taste, for any pain, especially in the vicinity of the head, does overpower the sense organs clustered there.
Still, for all that enforced absence of memory material, I do remember something. A feeling mostly, of coldness, dampness, the smell of pines and some vertigo that all cities on hills inspire. All these, I admit, are post card feelings.
So, when a Baguio trip was proposed I looked forward to going beyond those feelings; To experience things for myself and also to validate the experiences of others, artist friends and colleagues mostly, from whom almost everything I 'know' about Baguio originate.
Traveling to Baguio, especially from as far as mid-Philippines, is a ballet. It takes meticulous planning, timing and, best, with practice. Thankfully with the help of friends and the internet, we planned well, scheduled our timing and could dispense with practice.
The weather, however, was a giant sledgehammer that could and often does pulverize the best of plans like fine china. At Mactan airport on our departure, – delayed – we were treated to the telenews of floods, landslides, avalanches, collapsing houses, fences, roads stalled with vehicles and rain, rain everywhere in Luzon.
But we pushed on, arriving in Baguio in one piece though some of our pieces were wet. Flood waters soaked through them as we, somewhat innocently, put our bags in the bus's cargo hold that, at some points, were lower than the flood water level.
Our first stop was the Tam-awan Village. But, before proceeding there we made a short detour to the house and studio of artist Ben-Hur Villanueva across Tam-awan's entrance. I had never met him nor his art before. In fact, as soon as we entered the gate and I saw the bronze sculptures, the first name that came to mind was that of the artist Solomon Saprid. But, they were Villanueva's and there he was, taking a rest from work to entertain us.
He and his wife had been to Cebu in '84, guests of the Garciases. He gave a workshop at UP though UP professor Raymund Fernandez doesn't remember when I asked him. He has taught art at Ateneo University for more than 30 years. He has traveled and exhibited widely. He sports a graying ponytail. He is a perfect host offering us cookies and soy coffee at his Disperensiya Cafe, named so because originally it was to have featured only cups and dishes that have some imperfection with them, rejects, in other words.
Lastly, and not leastly, he is the elder of Roberto Villanueva. Roberto is among the legends of Baguio. Like many legends, he appears to be bigger than life. I have never met Roberto, but my most reliable source about him is Raymund who is able to put Roberto in a more reasonable perspective that is informed by personal encounters.
After the warm meeting with the elder Villanueva, on to Tam-awan. This facility – galleries, spaces for outdoor installations, gatherings and workshops and authentic traditional Cordillera huts available for rent -- is one of Baguio's cultural gems. It was set up many years ago by a group of artists who collectively give Baguio its renown in the national art scene.
After this rain-soaked visit we retire for the day. The following day it was the turn to visit Kidlat Tahimik's domain. Born Eric de Guia of a family that is said to practically own the city, he turns his back on a career in economics, changes his name, dons a bahag and megs this world-famous film 'Perfumed Nightmare.'
The space is atop one of the family buildings in the city. As one climbs higher, – stairs, no elevators -- one feels like crawling out of a hole and onto this fabulous space with sky light roofs, a pond with carps, three mini-buildings including one that has Russian style domes, a giant cloth snake-eel-dragon hung across the ceiling space and spaces that are divided and defined by materials that seems to have grown instead of put together.
For all the seeming clutter, it is quite a meditative space. Two men were putting additional structures, the purpose for which was not immediately evident. I poked around in corners and marveled at how objects seemed to exist in this space where it didn't matter whether it was art or not.
We left soon after, but, as is the nature of Baguio, she hasn't left us. Not yet. Not ever?
Until lasts week, the only time I had been to Baguio City was almost a quarter of a century ago. I don't remember much of that trip except about something that kept me from having much of anything to remember.
I was bedridden most of that time. I had the most severe sinus attack. I could hardly open my eyes for the pain. The friend with whom I took this trip became my eyes, ears and even taste, for any pain, especially in the vicinity of the head, does overpower the sense organs clustered there.
Still, for all that enforced absence of memory material, I do remember something. A feeling mostly, of coldness, dampness, the smell of pines and some vertigo that all cities on hills inspire. All these, I admit, are post card feelings.
So, when a Baguio trip was proposed I looked forward to going beyond those feelings; To experience things for myself and also to validate the experiences of others, artist friends and colleagues mostly, from whom almost everything I 'know' about Baguio originate.
Traveling to Baguio, especially from as far as mid-Philippines, is a ballet. It takes meticulous planning, timing and, best, with practice. Thankfully with the help of friends and the internet, we planned well, scheduled our timing and could dispense with practice.
The weather, however, was a giant sledgehammer that could and often does pulverize the best of plans like fine china. At Mactan airport on our departure, – delayed – we were treated to the telenews of floods, landslides, avalanches, collapsing houses, fences, roads stalled with vehicles and rain, rain everywhere in Luzon.
But we pushed on, arriving in Baguio in one piece though some of our pieces were wet. Flood waters soaked through them as we, somewhat innocently, put our bags in the bus's cargo hold that, at some points, were lower than the flood water level.
Our first stop was the Tam-awan Village. But, before proceeding there we made a short detour to the house and studio of artist Ben-Hur Villanueva across Tam-awan's entrance. I had never met him nor his art before. In fact, as soon as we entered the gate and I saw the bronze sculptures, the first name that came to mind was that of the artist Solomon Saprid. But, they were Villanueva's and there he was, taking a rest from work to entertain us.
He and his wife had been to Cebu in '84, guests of the Garciases. He gave a workshop at UP though UP professor Raymund Fernandez doesn't remember when I asked him. He has taught art at Ateneo University for more than 30 years. He has traveled and exhibited widely. He sports a graying ponytail. He is a perfect host offering us cookies and soy coffee at his Disperensiya Cafe, named so because originally it was to have featured only cups and dishes that have some imperfection with them, rejects, in other words.
Lastly, and not leastly, he is the elder of Roberto Villanueva. Roberto is among the legends of Baguio. Like many legends, he appears to be bigger than life. I have never met Roberto, but my most reliable source about him is Raymund who is able to put Roberto in a more reasonable perspective that is informed by personal encounters.
After the warm meeting with the elder Villanueva, on to Tam-awan. This facility – galleries, spaces for outdoor installations, gatherings and workshops and authentic traditional Cordillera huts available for rent -- is one of Baguio's cultural gems. It was set up many years ago by a group of artists who collectively give Baguio its renown in the national art scene.
After this rain-soaked visit we retire for the day. The following day it was the turn to visit Kidlat Tahimik's domain. Born Eric de Guia of a family that is said to practically own the city, he turns his back on a career in economics, changes his name, dons a bahag and megs this world-famous film 'Perfumed Nightmare.'
The space is atop one of the family buildings in the city. As one climbs higher, – stairs, no elevators -- one feels like crawling out of a hole and onto this fabulous space with sky light roofs, a pond with carps, three mini-buildings including one that has Russian style domes, a giant cloth snake-eel-dragon hung across the ceiling space and spaces that are divided and defined by materials that seems to have grown instead of put together.
For all the seeming clutter, it is quite a meditative space. Two men were putting additional structures, the purpose for which was not immediately evident. I poked around in corners and marveled at how objects seemed to exist in this space where it didn't matter whether it was art or not.
We left soon after, but, as is the nature of Baguio, she hasn't left us. Not yet. Not ever?
Wednesday, August 08, 2007
08.09.07 kulturnatib
A new discovery of the old
Anton Ego, the crowish food critic and tasting terror in all off Paris, sums up the movie Ratatouille beautifully. He writes a review of the revitalized Cafe Gusteau whose main chef, it is revealed to him, is, incredibly now, a rat. In the first part of this review, that turns out to be a valedictory as well as he is fired for crowing about a rat, he says something about critics that I like.
This bears an extensive quote; “In many ways the work of the critic is easy. We risk very little yet enjoy the position of those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism which is fun to write and to read but the bitter truth we critics must face is that the average junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times that a critic truly risks something and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. . . .”
Watching or listening to Ego read out his review – with the inimitable voice of Sir Peter O'Toole – as he writes it reminded me that being a critic is sometimes what I do. How true what he says.
Especially that last line in the above quote.
Yet, there are risks and Risks. The latter we experienced recently.
Recently, my partner and I were in Siquijor. We had planned this trip some while ago. Only this time did we have the opportunity to put into action our plans.
Our plan was to bicycle around the island, reputed for its mystical attractions and terrors as well. As with many islands in the Visayas, this was easily accessible from Cebu.
The same accessibility goaded Jens Funk, a German with Cebuano kasing-kasing (heart), as he vehemently puts it, into the exploring the Visayas on two wheels. Not only that, he has written the first ever bicycle guide to these islands and more; Palawan, Romblon, etc.
Armed with this book, “Cycling Philippines : Visayas Edition” we boarded the slow boat to Larena. Immediately we hit upon what the book in Page 16, 'Useful Hints' says of traveling on boat with bikes. There is mention of 'Arrastre.' The explanation of what this is is somewhat confusing.
Truth is, this is extremely confusing. But it is a 'Bill of Lading' that is required in order for bikes to board the boat. But, as the book suggests, if the bike is contained in a bag, this bill does not apply. Why? Who knows?
The 'arrastre' part is the monopoly 'rights' of a port handling company who considers all cargo to be subject to a handling fee whether or not they do any handling at all. Not all ports have the sophistication or curse to have such monopoly. Cebu City port is cursed with this highway-robbing monopoly.
On the boat, we are already planning our bike routes. The book offers plenty of options, detailed ones at that. We have our tentative course for our 3-day jaunt. This, pending what the real conditions would be on arrival; weather, road conditions, physical resistance.
We arrive at night. We are glad that there are street lights, as few and far between as they are. Our own lights are either underpowered or do not focus well. We find our resort, a quarter of a kilometer from the main coastal highway that is well paved and maintained, we learn later.
Morning is blanketed with clouds. We've agreed to take the route that goes northeastward from the resort up to Maria and then cuts across to Basak at the peak then downwards to Larena. The climb to Basak is a bit strenous and persistent. But the views are well worth it. Our bikes though are showing more their age than we are. The gears complain, are recalcitrant and you feel them in your teeth.
After a forced rest in Basak due to rains that have held back till then, it was downhill all the way to Larena in slopes that told us the wisdom of the route we took. Going the other way would have surely been a killer.
The next day was the round about Siquijor. We took the southwestward or counter-clockwise route. As the book says, nothing in Siquijor is flat. Indeed. But, the inclines were manageable. All the better in looking forward to the downward freewheels on the other side. Starting off early at 8am, we completed the circuit of 73 kilometers by 5pm. Not a speed for winning any race, but it was an easy, rest punctuated ride that had us fully appreciating the sights, smells and simple but sumptuous food.
Thursday was rest day. Friday we leave. Again, in rain threatened and smothered weather. We bike to Siquijor, the capital municipality, with hours to spare before we board the fast craft that slices the sea to Dumaguete like a bucking zipper.
Back in Cebu, we write notes on the book. A fine whittle to an excellent work, really.
Anton Ego, the crowish food critic and tasting terror in all off Paris, sums up the movie Ratatouille beautifully. He writes a review of the revitalized Cafe Gusteau whose main chef, it is revealed to him, is, incredibly now, a rat. In the first part of this review, that turns out to be a valedictory as well as he is fired for crowing about a rat, he says something about critics that I like.
This bears an extensive quote; “In many ways the work of the critic is easy. We risk very little yet enjoy the position of those who offer up their work and their selves to our judgment. We thrive on negative criticism which is fun to write and to read but the bitter truth we critics must face is that the average junk is probably more meaningful than our criticism designating it so. But there are times that a critic truly risks something and that is in the discovery and defense of the new. . . .”
Watching or listening to Ego read out his review – with the inimitable voice of Sir Peter O'Toole – as he writes it reminded me that being a critic is sometimes what I do. How true what he says.
Especially that last line in the above quote.
Yet, there are risks and Risks. The latter we experienced recently.
Recently, my partner and I were in Siquijor. We had planned this trip some while ago. Only this time did we have the opportunity to put into action our plans.
Our plan was to bicycle around the island, reputed for its mystical attractions and terrors as well. As with many islands in the Visayas, this was easily accessible from Cebu.
The same accessibility goaded Jens Funk, a German with Cebuano kasing-kasing (heart), as he vehemently puts it, into the exploring the Visayas on two wheels. Not only that, he has written the first ever bicycle guide to these islands and more; Palawan, Romblon, etc.
Armed with this book, “Cycling Philippines : Visayas Edition” we boarded the slow boat to Larena. Immediately we hit upon what the book in Page 16, 'Useful Hints' says of traveling on boat with bikes. There is mention of 'Arrastre.' The explanation of what this is is somewhat confusing.
Truth is, this is extremely confusing. But it is a 'Bill of Lading' that is required in order for bikes to board the boat. But, as the book suggests, if the bike is contained in a bag, this bill does not apply. Why? Who knows?
The 'arrastre' part is the monopoly 'rights' of a port handling company who considers all cargo to be subject to a handling fee whether or not they do any handling at all. Not all ports have the sophistication or curse to have such monopoly. Cebu City port is cursed with this highway-robbing monopoly.
On the boat, we are already planning our bike routes. The book offers plenty of options, detailed ones at that. We have our tentative course for our 3-day jaunt. This, pending what the real conditions would be on arrival; weather, road conditions, physical resistance.
We arrive at night. We are glad that there are street lights, as few and far between as they are. Our own lights are either underpowered or do not focus well. We find our resort, a quarter of a kilometer from the main coastal highway that is well paved and maintained, we learn later.
Morning is blanketed with clouds. We've agreed to take the route that goes northeastward from the resort up to Maria and then cuts across to Basak at the peak then downwards to Larena. The climb to Basak is a bit strenous and persistent. But the views are well worth it. Our bikes though are showing more their age than we are. The gears complain, are recalcitrant and you feel them in your teeth.
After a forced rest in Basak due to rains that have held back till then, it was downhill all the way to Larena in slopes that told us the wisdom of the route we took. Going the other way would have surely been a killer.
The next day was the round about Siquijor. We took the southwestward or counter-clockwise route. As the book says, nothing in Siquijor is flat. Indeed. But, the inclines were manageable. All the better in looking forward to the downward freewheels on the other side. Starting off early at 8am, we completed the circuit of 73 kilometers by 5pm. Not a speed for winning any race, but it was an easy, rest punctuated ride that had us fully appreciating the sights, smells and simple but sumptuous food.
Thursday was rest day. Friday we leave. Again, in rain threatened and smothered weather. We bike to Siquijor, the capital municipality, with hours to spare before we board the fast craft that slices the sea to Dumaguete like a bucking zipper.
Back in Cebu, we write notes on the book. A fine whittle to an excellent work, really.
Sunday, August 05, 2007
08.02.07 kulturnatib
my apologies for the late posting of this column. this column was actually written and sent to the editor quite early in the week. but i didnt have time after the writing and the sending off of this column and before my partner and i had to go on another trip. this time to siquijor island where we had for months now been planning to bicycle around. were back now from this trip and i made it a point to post this as soon as i could. it is possible that my column for this week will be about the siquijor trip. if so, or even if not, you should get first glance at it sooner than most, as has happened before.
I will never kayak again
I will never kayak again, in a kayak that keels this way and that, seemingly with a mind of its own and taking as much time and much more energy to keep its bow on target towards its destination.
Last weekend, a motley international crew of Filipinos, three Brits, an American, a Canadian, a Korean and a German embarked on one of the Moonlight Paddles that used to be regularly organized by JumpOff Point, and before that the Baruto Paddlers, if I got that right.
Recently though, this night paddling trek that heads for designated islets – in a hop to one or one to another and, sometimes, yet another -- that dot that passage way from Olango Island to Bohol, one of the world's most biodiverse marine stretches in the world, had not been quite that regular.
But last weekend, with the full moon approaching its most ovoid state, JumpOff Point organized this trip. It proved to be the most well participated in, so far, in this activity's uneven but always eventful history.
Based on those who attended the mid-week preparatory meeting prior to the trip, one would not think that such a group would grow from the handful there.
But, the group it was, the final composition continuing to be fluid until almost the last minute.
As we set off at a little past 10pm from the Karancho Resort, two hours after our STD or set time of departure, we were composed of 13 kayaks; 3 singles and 10 tandems or two-seaters of paddlers with varying kayaking experience. One or two had no prior experience at all and an equal number were experienced enough to be certified by the Singapore Canoe Federation.
Stay as close together as possible. Don't stray away. Keep to the blinker in front of you. Use your whistles if there is anything wrong. Eli will be the sweeper and will sweep for those who will lag behind or will stray. There is a possibility of light showers. We will regroup every so often. Count off.
And, off we were. Almost immediately, we sensed there was something not quite right with our kayak. Of course, we thought of it as there is something wrong with how we are paddling. We could not hold a straight line. The kayak went through extreme leftward, rightward swings. Not just once did we find ourselves almost going around in a circle.
Frustrating to the extreme. But the gibbous moon peeking out from black cottony clouds, at times casting its spotlight presence on the entire sky when the clouds deferred to it, the mirror flat waters and then the small islet of Sulpa, when we arrived there a little over an hour from our start, more than made up for it.
Over drinks and food – including, quite incredibly, gourmet salad and Hungarian sausages – the group enjoyed an evening of cross-cultural exchange that centered around the mock rivalry between otherwise good friends and budding business partners, a Brit and a German, with an American keeping a running score of points scored for number of jokes told, witty comments or ripostes made, etc.
The sun bore down on everybody not long after we retired chasing us out of tents, hammocks, sleeping bags and mats towards a reluctant but, mostly, full breakfast. By 10am the reloading of the kayaks commenced.
By half past the hour, we were on our way back via the mangroves of the southern tip of Olango island. We thought that our kayak, lighter now with a lesser load, would behave better now. Going over the previous evenings zig-zag we thought the cause might be the unequal loading of cargo, favoring the fore cargo hatch.
But, no, this didn't seem to be the case. Somebody, during a regroup as we reached Olango, suggested that we might consider switching places. Up to that point, I was on the steerer's seat. I thought there might be a point to that. So switch we did, but, in the process, overturning our kayak, throwing my partner overboard. Still, this gave us ample opportunity to test whether we knew how to right an overturned kayak and reenter it. We passed the test.
The kayak still couldn't hold a straight line. So bad, at one point that we found ourselves in the thick of the mangrove patch with its leaves and branches right up to my face.
It was a struggle to get back, helped none by a blazing noonday sun. But, we made it back. Extremely tired, burned despite sunblock, and euphoric. We made it.
But, I will never ride that kayak again.
I will never kayak again
I will never kayak again, in a kayak that keels this way and that, seemingly with a mind of its own and taking as much time and much more energy to keep its bow on target towards its destination.
Last weekend, a motley international crew of Filipinos, three Brits, an American, a Canadian, a Korean and a German embarked on one of the Moonlight Paddles that used to be regularly organized by JumpOff Point, and before that the Baruto Paddlers, if I got that right.
Recently though, this night paddling trek that heads for designated islets – in a hop to one or one to another and, sometimes, yet another -- that dot that passage way from Olango Island to Bohol, one of the world's most biodiverse marine stretches in the world, had not been quite that regular.
But last weekend, with the full moon approaching its most ovoid state, JumpOff Point organized this trip. It proved to be the most well participated in, so far, in this activity's uneven but always eventful history.
Based on those who attended the mid-week preparatory meeting prior to the trip, one would not think that such a group would grow from the handful there.
But, the group it was, the final composition continuing to be fluid until almost the last minute.
As we set off at a little past 10pm from the Karancho Resort, two hours after our STD or set time of departure, we were composed of 13 kayaks; 3 singles and 10 tandems or two-seaters of paddlers with varying kayaking experience. One or two had no prior experience at all and an equal number were experienced enough to be certified by the Singapore Canoe Federation.
Stay as close together as possible. Don't stray away. Keep to the blinker in front of you. Use your whistles if there is anything wrong. Eli will be the sweeper and will sweep for those who will lag behind or will stray. There is a possibility of light showers. We will regroup every so often. Count off.
And, off we were. Almost immediately, we sensed there was something not quite right with our kayak. Of course, we thought of it as there is something wrong with how we are paddling. We could not hold a straight line. The kayak went through extreme leftward, rightward swings. Not just once did we find ourselves almost going around in a circle.
Frustrating to the extreme. But the gibbous moon peeking out from black cottony clouds, at times casting its spotlight presence on the entire sky when the clouds deferred to it, the mirror flat waters and then the small islet of Sulpa, when we arrived there a little over an hour from our start, more than made up for it.
Over drinks and food – including, quite incredibly, gourmet salad and Hungarian sausages – the group enjoyed an evening of cross-cultural exchange that centered around the mock rivalry between otherwise good friends and budding business partners, a Brit and a German, with an American keeping a running score of points scored for number of jokes told, witty comments or ripostes made, etc.
The sun bore down on everybody not long after we retired chasing us out of tents, hammocks, sleeping bags and mats towards a reluctant but, mostly, full breakfast. By 10am the reloading of the kayaks commenced.
By half past the hour, we were on our way back via the mangroves of the southern tip of Olango island. We thought that our kayak, lighter now with a lesser load, would behave better now. Going over the previous evenings zig-zag we thought the cause might be the unequal loading of cargo, favoring the fore cargo hatch.
But, no, this didn't seem to be the case. Somebody, during a regroup as we reached Olango, suggested that we might consider switching places. Up to that point, I was on the steerer's seat. I thought there might be a point to that. So switch we did, but, in the process, overturning our kayak, throwing my partner overboard. Still, this gave us ample opportunity to test whether we knew how to right an overturned kayak and reenter it. We passed the test.
The kayak still couldn't hold a straight line. So bad, at one point that we found ourselves in the thick of the mangrove patch with its leaves and branches right up to my face.
It was a struggle to get back, helped none by a blazing noonday sun. But, we made it back. Extremely tired, burned despite sunblock, and euphoric. We made it.
But, I will never ride that kayak again.
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