Chapter Six #2
“It’s fine if that’s not possible,” Sloane says, her eyes flicking to Dereck. He flashes a frighteningly white smile but doesn’t quite meet her gaze.
“We want you to be comfortable. I’ll bring your bags to Sky Dome right away.”
Outside, I turn back. Sloane looks at me as if I might’ve changed my mind about sisterhood. Not likely.
“Don’t forget to keep the door closed. You’ll spend hours chasing mosquitoes if you don’t.”
The silver zipper neatly seals the barrier between us.
Next session, we need to shorten the time between arrival and orientation. Thirty minutes turns out to be long enough for nearly half of our clientele to pull me aside.
Mitch says Lori can be forgetful—do we have spare sunglasses and water bottles, in case her wife’s go missing? Meanwhile, Mitch’s diabetes has caused nerve damage in her feet, says Lori; I need to watch her when we’re portaging.
Lori strikes me as someone who’s never been embarrassed about bodies—hers, or anyone else’s. I get the strong impression that before this trip is over, she’ll have spontaneously shown me her entire butt for some quasi-medical reason.
I don’t laugh when Brent jokes that doctors are bad for his blood pressure.
When everyone’s seated at the firepit, the Love Boat’s multifunctional hub for socializing, briefings, and group therapy, McHuge claps his hands.
“Now that we’re all here, quick reminder of the nondisclosure agreement covering course materials and privacy.
Without safety, no one will be comfortable sharing during the debrief.
Likewise, we ask that no one takes photographs during paddling.
We don’t want the focus to shift from how you feel in the moment to how you’ll look in an image that lasts forever. ”
Brent obtrusively nudges Willow, who looks sadly at the waterproof camera bag at her feet. She brightens when McHuge says photos are fine in camp as long as the subjects consent.
“Let’s introduce ourselves. We’ll have lots of time to grow into besties, so keep it to name and hometown.” McHuge gestures to Willow on his left.
She’s got a sweet smile to go with her wavy brown hair and soft face. “I’m Willow. Brent and I live in a suburb of Chicago, but I was born in Stockholm.”
Before the murmur of interest has died down, Brent fluffs the thinning top of his salt-and-pepper hair and launches his own intro. “Brent Torquay, senior writer for Beeswax magazine. I’ve been stationed in New York, Tokyo, and London, among other places.”
Silence follows Brent’s recitation of his résumé, but he’s set the tone.
Mitch coolly discloses that she’s the vice president of internal communications at Vancouver International Bank; Lori grins and says she’s retired.
Petra and Trevor are both grad students in Boston.
Sloane says she’s in the “entertainment industry” in LA, prompting another round of stares and whispers.
Dereck proclaims he’s an actor, then looks disappointed when no one asks any follow-up questions.
McHuge pulls a stack of shiny cards from his pocket and hands them to Dereck. “We’ll go over the curriculum, but here’s a quick-reference for day-to-day. Take one and pass them on.”
The cards are basic black print on white stock, the design spare and fancy like a spa menu. I scan the first side.
DAILY SCHEDULE
7:30:
???Hot water delivery to tents
8:00:
???Breakfast (Pavilion)
9:00:
???Morning yoga/meditation (Pavilion)
10:15:
??Bell rings—meet at the clearing dressed to paddle
12:30:
??Lunch on the go
3:00:
???Return to camp, afternoon snack
3:30:
???Debriefing Circle
4:30:
???Sauna (optional), personal time, journaling
6:00:
???Dinner (Pavilion)
7:00:
???Campfire
I flip over the card.
CURRICULUM
Days 1–2: Get It Together
Days 3–4: Get Out of Here
Days 5–6: I Get You
Days 7–8: We’ve Got This
Days 9–10: Capstone river-running trip
Most of the guests tuck their cards into a pocket.
Brent photographs it front and back, then stuffs both card and phone into a waterproof pouch with a shoelace-thin lanyard that will be killing his neck by Wednesday.
Trevor and Petra huddle shoulder to shoulder, reading intently.
They look fresh and eager. Younger than twenty-nine.
Or maybe it’s that I feel older than thirty-three.
I once read a study showing that doctors’ DNA ages six years during their first year of training—too much stress, too little sleep—and that was before the pandemic.
Maybe I’m grumpy because my brittle geriatric DNA wants everyone to get off my lawn.
Trevor’s hand shoots up. “Will there be additional printed material? Something more detailed, like your book?”
“Amazing question, Trevor. I don’t want people to be distracted by the future instead of staying in the present, so I’ll explain quickly now, then more as we go.
I recommend you try to build an emotional foundation versus an intellectual one.
The Love Boat is about exploring how you feel .
You feel me?” McHuge glances around, nodding wisely.
McHuge the public speaker is a tightrope walker: mystical, but not so far out that people feel uncomfortable; unique but recognizable; intelligent yet approachable.
He’s managing to give every vibe anyone could possibly want while making the balancing act look easy.
I think I’m the only one who wonders what would happen if he fell.
“What I love about the Love Boat is that we’re all seeking a higher plane of connection.
As such, it’s important to anticipate highs and lows as we learn.
A very typical pattern would be to start strong, feel great, love everyone, and bask in some beginner’s luck.
That would be the ‘Get It Together’ phase. ” He taps his card.
“After that first win, we might struggle as we take on bigger challenges. We’re still learning, but it can feel like we’re stuck or even losing ground. It’s very emotional. You might be tempted to blame your partner.”
“‘Get Outta Here,’” Lori supplies cheerily. “Mitch and I felt that way the entire first year of our son’s life. Luckily, we were too tired to research divorce lawyers.” Mitch reaches for Lori’s hand and squeezes, her brown cheeks flushing deep pink.
I’m calculating the over-under on when exactly I will be seeing Lori’s butt when I happen to glance over at Sloane.
She’s sitting stiffly, a cardboard smile in place of her previous high-wattage grin.
I was wrong about the universal intimacy of the arm around the shoulder thing, because Dereck’s arm hangs from her body like the physical embodiment of a recurring argument.
“Exactly, my friend,” McHuge says, giving Lori an appreciative nod. “That’s when journaling can be most transformative, so I may assign a reflection or two.
“The good news is there’s nowhere to go but up. At the I Get You level, you and your partner engage in deep relationship exploration. This stage is my favorite. Very, very spiritual and satisfying. And last, you’ll use that deep understanding to perform together: We’ve Got This.
“The highlight of the course is our overnight trip with loaded canoes. I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty excited to camp out. Any questions?”
Brent raises his hand. He has a way of leading with his chest that reminds me of my neighbor’s rooster in Pendleton, strutting around the yard, crowing at all hours. “Would you credit the Love Boat’s curriculum for your quick engagement? Congratulations, by the way.”
McHuge looks at me, eyes wide. He wanted us to sit on opposite sides of the circle so the clients wouldn’t be up against a wall of instructors. Now we’re too far apart to coordinate a response.
“No,” I blurt, just as McHuge starts to say “Yes,” then panics and changes it to “Um.”
Brent frowns like he’s unearthed an interesting puzzle piece. “Yum…?”
“Inside joke. Off the record,” I say, fully talking out of my ass. I have no idea about journalism. “Let’s save the personal questions for later. Right now, does anyone have concerns related to the curriculum?”
No hands go up. As everyone stands to head down to the beach, McHuge and I exchange a glance. That was close, but I think we weathered our first test as a “couple.”
“Yum,” Lori whispers, nudging me as she walks past. “You two are such cute little lovebirds.”
I can’t blush like McHuge, so I try for a knowing smirk. It seems to work; Lori winks and moves on.
Only nine and a half more days to go.