The girl’s leaning over the sink. She turns to face me with something vertical looking in her hand. Weapon?!

I chuck the shower caddy with an involuntary “Ahhhh!” battle cry, and hobble-fast-walk toward the exit.

I hear my shower things crash into her and onto the floor as I throw open the door into the night. I don’t stop until I reach my cabin, slam the door shut, and throw the dinky bolt lock into place.

8.???

JAMIE

August 28, Friday Evening

Colorado

I drop the nail file back into my Ziploc bag. What the fuck just happened?

9. Angst and Fishing

SIRI

August 29, Saturday Morning

Colorado

The ground squishes slightly under my black Nikes as I pad out onto the soft dirt of the lake beach.

On the way over here, I stopped by Terry’s cabin to report the girl from last night for a personal space violation. Fingers crossed we don’t have to interact again.

The first fishing lesson of the retreat starts in ten minutes. I’m not looking forward to it.

Eight canoes are laid out along the beach and then there’s a wider row boat in the spot closest to the lakeside cabin. The sun has risen over the water and the light is warm against my face.

The teacher is the guy who ran into me on the path yesterday. Awkward. He strides out from inside the cabin and instructs me to pick a boat.

I pick one close to the cabin and take a seat inside it. Maybe I’ll find peace in fishing? Could fishing be my future? Canoeing?

Eh, definitely not. That’s bound to cause more back issues.

I stare at my black laces. Anger skulks its way down my limbs like lava leisurely making its way down a mountain side. It’s antsy and restless and slow-moving, and I don’t know what to do with it.

All these years I’ve channeled my emotions into dance. Not having that option now, it’s like I’ve lost an essential limb. I can’t dance (or listen to my music) so I’m lost and extra emotional and angry, and the way to get through that is to dance it out and I can’t dance it out, so I feel even more lost and emotional and angry.

Other retreaters start trickling into the area. There’s an old lady who’s here because her cat died; she takes the canoe to the left of mine. Come seven o’clock, the only canoe still open is the one to my right, closest to the wider rowboat.

The instructor introduces himself as Zarar. He starts the lesson with a rundown of canoe rules and a disclaimer that these aren’t actual canoes, merely mislabeled canoe-like narrow row boats. This place is ridiculous. I pull on the ugly neon life jacket sitting along the bottom of the canoe as per his instruction.