by Dawn Cicchini
Some friendships are steady: walks every morning, Sunday tea, monthly catch-ups over drinks. Others ebb and flow like water. We have the latter. Between work, school, family, trips – we can go weeks without a word.
On the water, our conversation flows.
Uhurina encouraged me to kayak with her 7 years ago, putting me on the Monongahela River in her kayak, Blue, with a borrowed paddle. She patiently showed me the way to stroke and turn and keep Blue’s bow turned into the wakes of the larger powered boats. Her instructions were always concise, and she explained terms I didn’t know. In no time I was buying a beginner kayak of my own.
We go out sporadically when both of us have a free day, but we never miss a season. Our usual launch is the Mon’s south shore at the Riverfront Park frequented by boaters, walkers, bikers, and Canada geese. In early spring before the river is warm enough, we explore North Park lake. Once in a while, we manage an early morning; while they can be chilly there is beauty in the water’s rare stillness and waking birdsong. Mostly I arrive mid-morning to find her already there. Our goal is always to be on the water and off again before the afternoon pleasure cruises and water-skiers churn the water into crisscrossing wakes.
Last October, we caught a lucky warm day and spent a breathless morning paddling east up the Mon, into the sunrise. While our usual safe boating rule is 120° (water + air temperature) we might have bent it a little that morning. I arrived bundled in a fleece jacket, double layered leggings, and thick wool socks instead of water-friendly sandals. Keeping both feet dry while entering a kayak is challenging but preferable to standing in water chilled by nighttime lows in the 30s. The river cooled the bottom of the kayak but paddling against the current warmed my hands and body. Few of the usual animals and even fewer people wanted to be out in the shadows of the river valley. Our words bounced off the water like sunlight between our kayaks. Approaching the sunken barges near Hays the hillsides were mosaics of color. Golden-leaved oak, red-brown maple, a hundred hues of orange on sycamore, walnut and elm, and the punctuation of evergreens among them all.
When I think of our friendship, I think of these moments: pulling up to the South Side launch and spotting a familiar orange kayak, pointing out the osprey riding air currents near Sandcastle, navigating coves and inlets on trips to Summersville Lake in West Virginia. Loading my kayak in the early dark, alone at my home, and unloading it together at the shore of the Mon. Snapshots of our city and its bridges nestled between hills painted in the brilliant new green of spring, or rich jewel tones of summer, or the amber glow of autumn.
Uhurina brings her knowledge of the water to our trips. She knows how to judge the wind and current and checks the weather, air, and water temperature. She spots fish and turtles before I do and is quick to observe changes in underwater snags or eroding shorelines. I contribute as an amateur naturalist, naming birds and plants common to local waterways.
The river can be impersonal, cold, and demanding. The friendship it supports, though, is warm and easygoing. I am, I admit, not the best of friends. I can be “flaky”; I can forget to call or write. But the promise of paddling brings me out of my shell. This water has buoyed our friendship and kept it going for years. Each season and each year brings new discoveries and new joy on the water.