Matej Maryska
“MATO! I think it’s time to go! He needs help before it’s too late,” Kate says clearly as she puts away the binoculars.
A minute later, I’m joining her on the SUP. We cross the river, fight the still rapidly rising tide and its current, and approach the little pontoon on the Portuguese riverbank. For a second, I can’t see anybody. Then, making it around the corner of the simple self-made landing platform based on simple plastic barrels, we see him again. Desperately trying to climb up the edge and out of the water, the muddy slope denies him and his efforts any success. After the failed attempt, the blond head dips in and disappears under the surface.
One second can last for ages when you see someone drowning.
Still many meters far away, I slide down the SUP, still dressed, and swim for his dear life while Kate jumps on the platform and secures our vessel.
I see brown river water, then the curly hair, followed by desperate eyes opened wide in horror. Without any sound — except for the heavy breathing interrupted by occasional burps and little nostril fountains, the victim is silent and obviously out of energy.
No more active attempts to swim as I reach him. I reach down into the water to secure him, grab the tired body around the knees and chest.
“Heeeey, buddy!” I repeat in a voice as calming as I manage to make it sound.
”It’s all right! Don’t worry,” I add without being sure if he speaks my language.
Once in my arms and his head well above the water, I feel his muscles slacking. But the body feels soft and somewhat inflated at the same time.
Immersed in the river up to my waist, I try to hoist him out of the water. No way! A powerless body weighs twice as much, and the soaked fleece he’s wearing doesn’t help much either. I beg him to help, trying to arrange his elbows on the firm ground. No answer. No reaction.
Not the place, nor the day of the incident. Back then, the water was a blessing, not a curse!
Kate is here. “Take his head,” I shout, “gently!” And push the heavy load with all my strength up the riverbank, before slipping out and having another involuntary swim. But the acute danger is banned.
On firm ground, still without a sound other than burping and breathing, our wet friend is shivering. “What’s next? Should we inform someone?”
With his eyes half closed now, the jaws firmly closed, he looks like suffering from a shock, perhaps! “What was it again that the first aid suggests to do in such a case?” I think. The next moment, I feel silly. “Treat first what kills first!” I remind myself as the rising tide catches up. A quick look around and a disappointing realisation later, I knee down and try my luck with lifting the helpless body. The high water mark of the last high tide speaks a clear language: Either we’ll get him out of here, or he’ll be in trouble again soon!
“Whaaaaaaagghgggg” is perhaps what my hopeless heavy lifting attempt might sound like.
Two barrel rolls later, I realize I don’t wanna hurt him more than he already might be.
Neither pulling or dragging him seems an option, as his limbs are pulled close to the cramping body, enduring one shiver wave after another.
”Shit!” I try to verbally achieve some sort of relief, while the victim defecates literally.
I wonder about how old he is. Can’t tell either by the swollen face or the bloated body. But he is a bulky bloke, and just a little bit too heavy for me to lift him up. And although conscious, he isn’t cooperating a single bit! This is what late-stage survival mode might look like..
“Kaci,” I say determinedly, “grab his feet, we’ll lift him up together!”
”Don’t hurt your back, darling,” she replies softly.
No sooner said than done, I’m limping up the slope with my silent yet terrified counterpart firmly embraced.
Warm pee flows down my upper arm and provides a weird contrast compared to the cold rest of the body.
“A normal stress reaction,” I realise.
Five meters further and out of the flooding zone, I lay him down, carefully, on a sunny spot.
We are both heavily breathing.
We sit down and a deep sensation of success — of successful aid — starts spreading. We speak about the emergency happening right there on the other side of the river. And the resistance, the friction when it comes down to take action. Following our intuition. Not letting that famous “Not my problem!” point of view sneak into our own perspectives. Because sometimes it can be tempting to think that we are not responsible for — or in case of — the misery of others observed. Complex and often emotionally demanding situations are not everyone’s favorite meal.
Shituations we call them — situations where there is no easy way out, so to speak. And it is more than comprehensible to stay out of the way when the infamous dirt hits the fan!
And still, when faced with bare suffering, when open and attentive enough to see and recognize it as such, we have the choice: do we decide to foster our sentient capacities, our empathy and understanding, or strengthen ignorance, double up blinkers and stay focused on our individual approach to life.
This, as we realize, isn’t a moral judgment per se. It is rather a natural burden of choice, as both properties are essential for our lives — and ultimately, survival — but they want to be used with care. Just as the spices added in our next Curry!
Many fig and pomegranate leaves, some cucumber peels, fresh figs and 12h of rest later, our curly friend has gone.
Will he be fine? Or will he drown the next day? We don’t know.
Sheep have their reputation for a reason, it seems. Not only regarding their cognitive abilities. Also about their fluffiness, Kate remembers; “It was soo soft, even when wet!”
Besides the well-known, one thing seems clear to us now:
If “Reef your sails when you first think of reefing” is a well-known seafarers’ saying, then
”Do help when you’re not sure if you should,” could be its more universal pendant based on our last week’s learnings.
….
MAAAATEEEEOOOOOOOO!!!
“I know this voice! What is happening?” I tell Kubi as we stop the work to listen up.
“MAAAAATEEEEEOOOO!”
Someone is calling me. The old way. Here, where the reception is poor, this isn’t the first time. ”I’ll call you once I’m back,” Jorge once said, leaving me wondering how if he doesn’t have my number. As I offered my contact, he smiled and said: “No worries, I just call you like this,” putting his palm around his mouth to form a funnel.
However, this isn’t Jorge, this is Antonio, and something is wrong by the tone of his voice penetrating into each and every corner of the valley.
“SIIIII” I shout through the thick wall of green bamboo.
”QUEEE PASAAA???” I add loud and slow.
”TUU TAABLAAA! SE TE QUITAAAN LA TAAAABLAAA!” is the roaring response from the Spanish side of the river.
Enough information to remind me on my athletic passions from a long time ago. Regardless of my height, I was always more a sprinter type of runner.
But instead of shoes with spikes and flat tartan track, I find myself testing my Birkenstock all-rounders to their core, following the river to the little pontoon where we parked our SUP.
It’s gone! And there, in the distance, almost in the first river bend downstream, it is.
With someone seated on top. And paddling on with our red kayak paddle! A couple of hundred meters flew by, and Kubi and I were catching up. A few words fit in between the heavy breathing caused by the sprint and adrenaline.
”We’ll give it one…good go! … If they try … to flee… you’ll follow … and … observe. … I run back … get the dinghy… and come back! .. Okay?” I hear myself giving spontaneous instructions.
”Ok!” Kubi answers, “come pick me up … first … if that’s the case” he adds.
The next thing I see is disturbing. As I rush through a path in the bamboo down the muddy slope of the river bank, I see a turtle lying on its back!
My brain hesitates for a whole split second before chucking the sad sight into the “irrelevant” category, and I leap forward and into the mud exposed by the low tide. My Birkenstock slippers stuck somewhere behind me in the very first meters.
“EEEEEEEEEEEEYYY!!” I make myself noticeable.
“WHAT .. DO YOU THINK .. YOU’RE DOIN’???” I add in my loudest Spanish so far.
Luckily, they don’t attempt to flee.
Unluckily, they have only very poor justifications to offer.
I am furious.
I am LOUD!
I am polite.
“ABANDONED?!” I repeat the first excuse, waking up the last birds sleeping in the area.
”IT WAS SECURED TO A CLEAT MOUNTED ON A PONTOON WITH A REGULAR CLEAT HITCH!” I clarify.
After some hesitation, the SUP is back in my possession.
“We are not thieves,” the two Spaniards — obviously on vacation and not from this area — keep repeating.
“THIS … IS … WHAT AN ABANDONED SUP MIGHT LOOK LIKE, GENTLEMEN!” I exclaim theatrically after throwing the SUP into the mud upside down and the paddle on top. I am angrier than I have been in a long time! I hear myself talking, loudly, clearly, fluently, and arguing logically and deconstructing the excuses one by one. My brother, perhaps, never saw me like this, I realize later.
“ARE YOU SERIOUS?” I reply to one of them, explaining me the true reason for their theft: “We are two, on one SUP, we have a long way home and might not make it before dark.
We saw them passing our garden an hour ago. Then we heard them swimming, laughing and definitely not hurrying anywhere. Enough for my sarcasm to kick in hard!
“OK, I UNDERSTAND. IF THIS IS THE LOGIC THAT APPLIES, PLEASE GIVE ME YOUR SUP, TOO!”
Before they finish exchanging confused looks, I continue:
“COME ON, GET OFF THIS THING. I AM TAKING IT.”
I tap their expensive-looking paddleboard while my subconscious notices how bold this move is.
“WE ARE TWO, TOO. AND WE ARE FROM THE CZECH REPUBLIC. WE HAVE A LONG WAY HOME, TOO. SO FOLLOWING YOUR ARGUMENTATION, WE ARE TAKING THE BOARDS. PERIOD!”
It is only long after we have let them go and are sitting on the newly built platform under the olive tree in the garden, that I realize that my younger brother has never seem me this angry before. Still full with adrenaline I laugh and say:
“You know, I could only ever act as furiously as this when I feel the whole weight of truth on my side and no morally acceptable explanation follows.”
“You’re right. And you we’re polite in a sense, although being furious,” Kubi answers.
“Yes.” I reply with a little pride in my voice, “It’s the only possibility to let the lesson stick with them and cleanse myself from the emotion once the situation is over, I guess.”
Matej Maryska