Gone Paddling

The day dawns with a totally different feel to yesterday. The rain pitter patters on the roof, and passing showers drum out the hum of the generator. As we get dressed, as we eat breakfast, as we pack the cars and wash the dishes there is an unmistakable undercurrent in conversations. In every sentence, every word, there is a whisper of anticipation. Did the rain cause the river to rise? By how much? Will the gorge be "rocking"? Will the intricate patterns of the dislocation and graveyard rapids turn into wild flushing playgrounds?

On the way to the put in, Sabina sizes up Russell's van. "Mama, Russell doesn't have a house", she says. "He's got a car house".

The boys prepare to put in at the Bundarra river bridge. The water is certainly moving right along. I find a stick and throw it in, trying to show Sabina where Papa will paddle, and how fast he will be out of sight. The stick is too small and we lose sight of it in the first wave. I throw a bigger stick. Sabina watches it float down in silence.

We turn back to watch the paddling preparations and I explain the equipment to Sabina. "Cag to keep dry, deck to keep water out of the boat, vest to float, helmet". She's fascinated by the vest. So many buckles and fasteners, so many trinkets to play with. The boys show her that there's even a whistle.

Papa puts in, and Sabina insists on sitting in the boat with him. She has visions of sitting between his legs, while he paddles into the middle of the river. Pete and I look at each other, and Sabina quickly ends up back on the bank despite the protests. Papa paddles out, and surfs the nearby wave. The wave washes over the front of his boat. Over his deck. Sabina is speechless.
The boys look at us, wave, and float gracefully down the river. Within seconds they are out of sight.

The next group of paddlers arrive. Peak hour traffic! We look at them playing in the wave. "When I am like Papa, I will have a purple boat", anounces Sabina, "And I'll have a blue boat". "Why do you need two boats?" I ask. "For when one gets dirty". Of course. We watch the paddlers float down the river. Suddenly a wave of longing grips me and I jump up and down on the spot "I want to go paddling, I want to go paddling". Sabina holds my hand like a loving parent. The rain starts in earnest. "But where's Papa?" quizzes Sabina. I open my mouth to reply, change my mind, and just smile.

We jump in the car. We wave a farewell at the Blue Duck as we drive by, then we're back on the winding road to Omeo. Memories of Winter Classics return to me once more. The Mr Men team - we won our division that day. But out of a team of eight only two turned up to the presentation. They got up on the podium and hung a sign "Gone paddling".

On the last downhill before Omeo I stop by the side of the road and point out the skewbald horse in the paddock. "There Sabina. Isn't that Rain?". She looks on carefully. "Yes Mama, that's Rain. Hello Rain! Hello Rain!", she waves madly through the window. Rain looks at us, then returns to her mid-morning snooze.

We hang out together in Omeo for a while. Cappucino for me, babycino for Sabina. Rain stops and sun shines brightly. Art gallery, a visit to the playground, a walk in the park, where Sabina skips and runs carefree along the path singing praises. Then we drive back to Hinnomunjie bridge to pick up the boys.

I stiffen when I see that they are already there and out of the water. Late again. But they greet us with joy and laughter, and dive into the esky for a can of Bourbon and cola. "We've been here for an hour" they chid. I stutter. They look at me half with pity, half with the zest of life. "It rocked", I hear.

While I make tuna dip, the kaleidoscope of colour that is paddling equipment, is packed away. The only colours that remain are Russell in his cycling gear, and the green green grass on the banks of the Mitta. We give Russell a warm farewell, and he cycles off to pick up his van. We glance back at the take out one more time, and we too are on our way.