Ashleigh's Dilemma Page 7

  Chapter III - Acceptance

  The first time Ashleigh found the strength and courage within herself to give up of herself, was in a tent between zipped up sleeping bags. The tent was pitched high up on a stone beach overlooking the Broken Group Islands, Barkley Sound, Vancouver Island; it was the only tent on the beach. An old growth forest of Douglas Fir and Sitka Spruce ringed the rocky coast and carpeted the ancient mountains. The sea was calm and blue and teaming with marine life: seals, killer whales – and, soaring above, gulls, bitterns, and a bald eagle spiraling against a sky as blue as the sea.

  Ashleigh sat in a kayak off the craggy shoreline. The sea swelled up beneath her, lifting her kayak before passing on and proceeding toward the shore where it rushed up the in a trail of foam before sweeping back. On each retreat it exposed a sheet of sea-worn rock blackened with marine growth, and colonies of mollusk tangled in rubber-like strands of kelp. Ashleigh studied the shoreline: rounded boulders tilted on their sides as if some hand had placed it there; a gravel beach, the gravel rounded and smooth and not all of one size some pieces large too big to lift and others small enough to fit in the palm of her hand. There were tidal pools, black oasis’s in the gravel; and, further back, the rainforest itself overpowering, green, and lonely, with curtains of mist keeping to the dark shadows that she would not step within without Patrick by her side. And above and beyond, holding it all within, green and black snowcapped mountains towering in and out of beams of light falling through the high cloud: tall, reaching, dark and deep: she could feel her stomach knot.

  She thought the motel at Ucluelet had been bad enough, but this was something else. Ashleigh had some difficulty in pronouncing, ‘Ucluelet’ – a native word meaning ‘people of the safe harbor’ …apparently… according to Patrick, that is. Patrick had no such difficulty: Ucluelet… the ‘l’’s and the ‘t’ twisting and snapping off his tongue.

  She glanced at Patrick. He sat next to her, his kayak synchronized to hers, lifting and dropping with the swell. He was resting on his paddle; it was placed across the beam of his kayak as he had shown her to do. She saw him in profile. He was looking back over his shoulder at the string of islands they had just passed through now shadowed black in the lowering sun - lifejacket across his chest, dark blue Gore-Tex jacket tight about his wrists but open at his neck; broad-brimmed hat pulled low; sunglasses tied from behind with a floatation lanyard. This was home to him.

  He turned back and smiled and she felt herself smile back. He pointed toward the shore with his paddle.

  “What do you think? You good?”

  “No, I’m not good! I might even die! Now wouldn’t that be just great!”

  He laughed “Not so bad, then!”

  Of course, she knew what was going to happen: once close in to the shore the sea would foam up and about her kayak and throw her over. It would be over quick: the next wave would toss her against the black rock, breaking her back, shattering her skull, pinning her against the black rock, ending everything.

  “I’m going to die.”

  “No, you’re not.”

  But with no way to contact the authorities, and no chance of rescue this far into the wilderness, Patrick would have to search for her on his own, likely not finding her lifeless body until the next morning. He would weep then, closing her sightless eyes and kissing her one last time while recalling how she had told him how she couldn’t handle this and undoubtedly feeling as guilty as hell about it – not that that would help her any. At that point, she would have threaded her way up as far as Heaven and would be looking down – pissed. That was one of Patrick’s words; he used it when a little bit upset about something: pissed – she rather liked it. It was the first opportunity she had had to use it. She smiled inwardly and turned to him.

  “I’m pissed!”

  He laughed, “Way to go!”

  It would by necessity, be a shallow grave; her lifeless corpse would be covered only by gravel found on the beach. Once Patrick had returned to civilization – his home, Maryland, his tree business, putting her forever behind him - the wild-life would be free to root through the loosely gathered pile easily pushing the rounded stones aside to reveal a limb – her arm, her leg.

  She had told him how she feared the wildlife and how she hoped they wouldn’t tear through the thin fabric of their tent and eat them while they slept. “Funny how that is,” she had said to him; “How your imagination can allow you to stand outside and above looking downward and recognize something as personal as… your arm; your leg… being rendered by razor sharp teeth, and… She had heard…”

  “Lions, and Tigers, and Bears! Oh my!” Patrick had interrupted, teasing her.

  “You told me there are Grizzlies and Black Bear and Mountain Lions, so give me a break!

  “Don’t worry, you won’t feel a thing,” Patrick had placated still teasing, but more gently; “You’re a bit paranoid,” he had added and had leaned over and kissed her to calm her down.

  She had needed calming, she realized. Her anxiety had been growing by the second and she was finding it difficult to keep it out of her voice. Despite that, she began to describe to him how the Black Bears, or Grizzlies, or whatever, would then proceed to drag her lifeless corpse free of its interment and ravenously tear her to pieces leaving behind only what they could not consume for the birds, the Gulls, Terns, Cormorant. “Oh God!” she had cried; “I can’t imagine what part of the anatomy that might be!”

  She mentally chastised herself; Patrick seemed to know the names of all the birds and she had forgotten her copy of the Peterson Field Guide and now she was going to look stupid; “Argh!”

  Returning, she recalled how he had nodded; “Yep, probably your skull; whenever you find remains in the forest, it’s usually the skull that remains – well chewed, mind you.”

  The sea surged, catching her kayak just off the centerline and she quickly placed her paddle in the water to steady herself and her heart returned to where it belonged. She glanced at Patrick. He nodded and smiled, smiled and nodded, handsome in his kayak, in perfect balance, congratulating her on her recovery. She hated him for it.

  He’d wrap her corpse up in a sleeping bag.

  “Hah! That’s ironic!”

  Patrick had purchased two separate sleeping bags for the trip which for a moment had seemed encouraging, but when she had asked him why he bought two when he already had one he explained it was because they had to match: if they don’t match you can’t zip them up together.

  He had picked up her reaction.

  “What?”

  “Nothing!”

  “It’s a little bit more difficult with the foam bed rolls…,” he had continued and she knew he was once again teasing her - his eyes danced, his smile was just below the surface; “You can’t zip them up. We’re likely to slip between the cracks.”

  “What do you mean by that?!”

  “Just that they get pushed apart and we end up sleeping on the ground sheet against the hard rock.”

  “Oh… That’s not going to happen. I’m sticking to mine!”

  “Easier said than done,” he’d laughed.

  She turned to tell him about the sleeping bags – she wanted to see his reaction; he’d understand immediately and laugh, she was sure - but he was a distance away paddling close to the shoreline near where the sea lifted and broke, his kayak skimming over the surface, the blades of his paddle flashing. She smiled watching him – and then cringed. Once ashore – if they made it ashore - Patrick would have her exactly where he wanted; that is, alone with him in the middle of nowhere, with nowhere to go but into the tent and into those zipped up sleeping bags. They wouldn’t find her body until spring, if ever. Not that Patrick was capable of murder, but she knew how frustrated she could often make him. Left alone for days on end who knows what could happen? If they had been able to agree on Machu Picchu instead, she would have been able to arrange for a separate hotel room. That is, if worse came to worse; awkward, yes, but if that’s what it
took, if that’s how she felt, then so be it.

  “Now let me get this straight,” she had asked him as they prepared for the trip; “After three sessions on Centennial Lake you’re asking me to… What? Where? No, no, no, no! I don’t think so! Machu Picchu, maybe - but kayaking with you in the middle of nowhere and with no chance of rescue, ever? No way!”

  “Love,” Patrick explained, laughing; “Love will make you do it.”

  Ashleigh, angry, exasperated – frightened, too, she later admitted - had shot back, “Please don’t say that! You know I have difficulty showing affection! At least wait until I’m on my death-bed, or some other more appropriate time!”

  Of course, he had laughed.

  Nor was the irony that the old growth could equally be described as a ‘virgin’ stand lost on Ashleigh; Patrick, being Patrick, had pointed it out; and, of course, Ashleigh had completely failed to see the humor. “So what?” she had said to herself; she was going to give up her virginity amidst a virgin forest, so what? The analogy is weak, a word game at best. “I’m not sure what you’re getting at but I don’t like it!” she had snapped back yet again. The physicality of losing one’s so-called innocence is merely the end result of penile-vaginal penetration, she had proceeded to explain after she had calmed down, but to no effect other than his barely concealed amusement. She was an endless source of amusement, it often seemed. It is merely the physical act of reproduction exercised between the male of the species and the female she had persisted, pressing on, annoyed with him for being so… so like a man! Men, she continued to expound, pressing her point far beyond what was needed, have no compunction and virtually no restraint. Losing their virginity is more of a ‘Rite of Passage’. It’s not their fault, it’s their biology, she agreed. She would give mankind that much at least.

  At least that was the theory… But Ashleigh was far beyond mere theory. Simply put, Ashleigh didn’t like the idea of being penetrated; if there was any penetration to be done, she’d rather do it.

  The essence of the problem – the very core of the dilemma she now found herself entangled within, was that the upcoming trip was, well, the end of her tactical procrastination. In other words, she didn’t know how she was going to avoid having sex with Patrick… ‘Going the Distance’ or ‘The Full Monty’ as Patrick had once referred to the act, tactfully, but oh so transparently, brushing at his nose to hide his smile. “Itchy nose...” he’d said, standing up, turning away from her while dropping his head into his hands, his body heaving. “Just say it, Patrick! Sex, Intercourse, Copulation! What’s your problem?!”

  She imagined the scene… same sleeping bag… not much room to maneuver. Her hand flew up to her chest and the kayak almost tipped as the next wave swept by. She quickly returned her hand to the gunwale and slowly exhaled regaining her balance. But of course she could refuse; one should not promise things like that.

  She twisted about to find Patrick. He was far down the coastline, but turning back. She liked the way he turned, his paddle nearly to the vertical as he expertly shifted his weight drawing the nose of his kayak about. The sea surged beneath him and he rode over it; he spun about on the crest and surfed, letting the travelling wave carry him forward until he cut back and let it pass. She wished she could do that.

  The thought of getting it over with quickly had had some appeal. She could have invited him over for another movie and, at the end, dishes done, the leftovers packaged and put away, she could have simply made it happen – women had that kind of power over men: “Patrick, I’ve been thinking - eventually you will want to have sex with me, so there’s no sense beating around the bush. We might as well get it over with.”

  “Right this very minute?”

  “Yes.”

  “Not even an opening kiss?”

  “Nope.”

  He most certainly would laugh.

  Actually, she knew exactly what he would have done: he’d sit her down on the couch and look her in the eye. “You gotta be kidding,” he’d say.

  But she’d continue, blushing through it.

  No she wouldn’t.

  The real problem with that plan, she realized, was that she’d yet to see a man naked; in particular, an aroused man. Under such circumstances would she be able to contain herself or would she run screaming into the safety of the bathroom where she could lock the door from the inside? She didn’t know. In her mind’s eye, she could not quite see Patrick so… so exposed. It would be so undignified. And the idea of he looking at her equally exposed? She blushed for both of them just thinking of it.

  Patrick, knowing how all of this bothered her, wanted to talk about it. “The time was come, the Walrus said,’” he had said, “To talk of many things: Of shoes – and ships – and sealing wax…” It bothered her that, once again, she had to look up the source of his quotation. Was he always laughing at her like that?

  “What kind of marriage would it be if the joining was between two people that had never made love?” Patrick had asked once they sat down and began to talk. “The sex part… is about intimacy… To offer over one’s self to another… The love part is giving of one’s self.”

  But she had quickly expounded on the idea of having a purely Platonic relationship – with some kissing here or there; there’s no harm in that; not yet, anyway - emphasizing he was a most excellent conversationalist, and furthered theorizing that the best kind of relationship might be one of unrequited love - love at a distance without all of the bodily fluids. She didn’t actually mention the ‘bodily fluid’ part. She might have thought it… in fact, she had… but she didn’t say it aloud… at least she didn’t think so. If she had, she was sure she would have been very sorry and would have taken it back - but she didn’t… she was pretty sure. But what she did say and, following her theme of unrequited love, was that love should be pure, always faithful, an experience within which one could experience the best of love: the beating of the heart, the catch of one’s breath, the fascination and obsession with one another, where anything awkward could always be conveniently excised through the imagination.

  Patrick seemed surprised by her sudden passion as well as her eloquence. He said as much. “Well!” he’d said - and on his way out the door, not expecting an answer, not smiling, but thinking aloud: “Who knows what goes on within the heart of another, even those you love more than your own self?” He had not known how she had felt; as insightful as Patrick might be, he couldn’t see all and Ashleigh was therefore able to keep some aspects of her inner life to herself – and that was good. She was not the open book he sometimes claimed she was. Still, she had felt a bit unsettled about their discussion. She had the sense it had not gone all that well.

  The next day Patrick had stopped by on his way to work, catching her as she was backing up out of her garage. She lowered the window annoyed at being held back, but worried too that something might be wrong. He had handed her a paperback copy of Dante’s, La Vita Nouva, reaching in and opening the book to where he had marked it. He had then proceeded to read aloud a few lines in what sounded to her ears like the original Italian which was silly because neither one of them could speak Italian, never mind medieval Italian. Even so, the way he had read it had sent an unexpected shiver down her neck and up her back and she did something she rarely did: she had kissed him – on the cheek as he was turning toward her to see her reaction. As their faces brushed up against one another, she immediately put up the window, catching him off-guard, and then had backed down the driveway her eyes glued to the rearview mirror, weaving about his truck, onto and over her lawn, and onto the street before heading off to work without once looking back at him - but thinking only of him.

  Of course, she had to study up on Dante and read a good part of both the La Vita Nouva, as well as the Divine Comedy, before she felt she understood why, perhaps, he had gone to such trouble.

  He loves me like that; he doesn’t think I love him as much, she thought.

  Patrick suddenly reappeared. He slipped past her
without warning, the hull of his kayak at the tip of her paddle. He spun about cutting immediately across her bow and then up the other side parallel to her. He stopped beside her, grinning.

  “Hey!”

  “I wish you wouldn’t do that!”

  “If you could only see how beautiful you look!”

  “I’m not beautiful!”

  “You are… Look in the mirror, Ashleigh! Just look at you – you are at one with your kayak, beautiful in bright blue Gore-Tex, a match for anywhere in Barkley Sound!”

  “Hah!”

  “Hah, yourself!”

  He nodded indicating the shore.

  “This is the best approach. You okay with it?”

  “I told you before - I’m going to die here. You will have to wrap my remains in the sleeping bag.”

  He laughed, “Sleeping bag? Our sleeping bag? Oh no, no, nothing like that!” He drew forward and turned about so that he was again parallel to her but facing the shoreline.

  “That’s funny.”

  “What is?”

  “The sleeping bag.”

  She shrugged but remained silent. He nodded again toward the shore.

  “A piece of cake…”

  “Not a piece I can eat.”

  “Just watch what I do. I ride the wave in and before it goes back out I jump out high and dry.”

  “As simple as that?”

  “Pretty much.”

  “I don’t believe you.”

  Patrick shrugged and smiled; “We’ll sit here for a moment, then.” He sat back, relaxed, and trailed his hand in the water.

  “Maybe we’ll go for a swim later?”

  “Hah!”

  It was better now. She understood him better. Their third kiss, an important one, and one that helped her decide – and, yes, she counted! – occurred while sitting on a large boulder in the middle of the Patapsco River. He was such an outdoors enthusiast, and just because she liked to hike – a little; on nice comfortable trails - he imagined she liked to do everything he liked to do – but not so. Anyway, it was another hike. Not much of a challenge, Patrick was careful to say, but a good outing. It was the same trail they had taken the previous year, although she hadn’t recognized it immediately – hardwood forest, mostly oak, some maple, lots of beech, the odd pine except for where they had been planted as a stand. She had made a point to identify each one. “Maple… sugar, I think; oak… basket, I do believe; another oak... it looks like a red.”