Thursday, June 17, 2010

Freewrite


As the wind whipped across the water he lost control of the tiller and the sail started to flap helplessly in the wind. He looked so pathetic in his neon life-vest, moaning out to his brother, his little hands gripping the side of the boat. His weight from leaning on the edge combined with the force of the wind caused the boat to tip - he was capsizing - and since in his terror he didn't have the presence of mind to step over the sailboat and onto the centerboard like we had learned in the swimming-pool simulation, it started to turtle.
He repeatedly called out to his brother, "Aaron" in a weak, high-pitched voice, and this vision of him and the sail slowly burying itself under the water to this day makes me laugh.
His brother and I would run into each other frequently years later, wandering the streets of Belltown. Once we found each other after a sweltering day at Bumbershoot. I was with my sister and the three of us walked home together. He was the first person to tell me about the Sit and Spin--things like that excited him.
"People here are weird," Monica said. "Like that lady - who is she?"
We glanced across the street to a tall, thin woman with long wavy hair, jet black except for a single strand of blonde.
"I don't know," I said.
"L.A. transplant?" Aaron suggested.
"No, not her, her," Monica gestured about 1/2 a block ahead of us, to a person with hot-pink leggings, and I recognized the he-she who I had kept running into at the Foo-Fighter's concert.
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