La Chalupa - The Canoe

The rain persisted. Winter had brought, it seemed, an endless stream of water no one was prepared for, leading eventually to busted dams, overflowing rivers, collapsed roads, and uprooted foundations. Weather conditions mirrored the political climate in so much as torrential opposition increased and all that hope and faith is built on was buckling beneath insurmountable pressure. Tiempo de Aguas, is what my grandma had referred to once when sharing her stories - a time of great rains that brought with it a sense of reckoning.

I listened to the beat of the drops, waiting for sleep to come. A humming serenade hitting my roof. A tinny drip-drip-drip syncopation falling from the awning to the medal garden-turtle below. Fatter base-line plops landing carelessly in the water-filled planter closest to my bedroom window. I let the rain spill into my sleep.

I awoke to quiet radiance. No more rain, but a sunlight stretched so far it was white, not yellow. My bed wavered beneath me, a gentle motion but so out of place I sat right up, looked around my bedroom, and saw it flooded all the way up to the box-spring. I was floating. Carefully, I dipped my feet into the water, finding it tolerable, and waded through my house, nudging objects out of my way- shoes, books, plastic toys.  At the front door, I paused, reminded of Dorothy right after the farmhouse had landed. What would I find on the other side of the door?

Water was everywhere. Rivers of it. Flowing leisurely down from the sloped street I lived on to the cross-street below and into the busy intersection. Standing on the rooftop  I could see the San Francisco Bay to the right and the Berkeley hills to the left. Below, my neighborhood was submerged. Walkways and driveways and fences and hedges had disappeared. All borders were erased by the rivers that invited themselves into every home, every room, every 1, 2 or 3-car garage. And the people were okay with that. The flood was no catastrophe by any means. Here, was not loss. Here, was an un-burdening. Some people swam in the river. Kids with arm floaties splashed, laughed, and shrieked. Whole families laid out beach towels on their roofs and sunbathed. It was a warm clear day after all.

When I came down from the roof, I met my neighbor, who had just stepped out of a canoe. I helped her unload grocery bags out of the little green weather-beaten boat, then she motioned for me to get in. She held the canoe steady while I positioned myself on a small slab seat, then turned the slippery oar over to me. The canoe, with me in it, was swiftly carried by the current. For some time I observed from my seat the sights around me...land, for as far as I could see, covered by water, and people scattered throughout rejoicing in it.  An imposition at first, it caused many to slip, tumble, and fall. But not long after they all seemed to relish the renewal it presented.

Right about that time I realized the canoe was still only following the current. I tightened my grip on the resting oar and wondered how far I could travel this new passage. Without roadblocks or barricades, hurdles or walls, where would the water take me? With a surge of anticipation I took control of the oar and pushed the canoe forward.