call out the commands hastily taught to me, and the rowers laugh when I get a few wrong. But we row, and from the river’s center I marvel at Wilmington’s downtown streets and her historic waterfront.
As the temperature rises from frigid to just cold, plumes of vapor hover just above the river’s surface while, nearby, the tread of cars crossing Memorial Bridge breaks the quiet. On the opposite shore an egret dives for food, dipping its beak close to where the battleship is permanently docked. Then there is the barge: moving heavy in the water, heading downriver on a course set to collide with our fragile skiff.
“We’ve got to get out of its wake,” one of the rowers yells, panic visible on his back-turned face.
I shout out power strokes that require the men to use all their might, and, trying to outpower the other ship’s mechanical motor, we stroke feverishly to the other shore. As the barge passes, the men use their oars to balance atop the large waves that curl from its bow and churn whitely from its stern. We rock dangerously, but keep our bodies centered, our minds focused, and soon the river calms again and the skiff no longer bobs. We are safe.
We row to a spot upchannel, an artery of the Cape Fear that is even calmer than the river herself. Here the men practice shifting in their seats, rolling to the catch, and flipping their oars for a smooth and strong pull in the water. We are silent: I hear the splash of water, the grunt of the rowers, the click of wooden oars slapping against wooden boat, and then the quiet flow of the river as we slip through it.
November 1991. It is after Thanksgiving. I’ve just returned from the family holiday and have been busy with papers and prepping for final exams. Sean—a freshman who rooms down the hall—sits across from me underneath Krispy Kreme’s “Hot Now” sign as we both take a needed study break. His dark brown hair curls from the humidity and his amber eyes widen and dart around in a twitch. We eat doughnuts, sip coffee. Often this semester,we have come here: to sit, to eat, to talk. And though we have said much, I have not said enough. At least not until now.
“I’ve got something to tell you.” And I begin: tell of my hemophilia, my HIV. Sean stops eating his doughnut and brings both hands to his coffee cup’s lid, where they fidget abstractly. Save for the sound of our breathing, it is quiet. I hear the rasp-heavy voice of a smoker ordering at the counter, the mellifluous trickle of a cup of coffee being poured, the click of a metal car door outside, the strain of the glass door being opened, the quiet laughter of a couple entering. I sip my coffee.
“That’s heavy,” Sean says. “Really heavy.”
His finger traces the napkin’s Krispy Kreme symbol as a child just learning to write. He stares into his coffee, looks outside the window, runs his hand through his hair, and breathes out heavy. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you told me . . . I’m not sure that I can help any, but if my knowing helps then I’m glad.” He pauses, sips his coffee, sets it back on the tabletop. “But I’ve got a million questions, and I don’t even know where to start. But one in particular is just nagging at me, and if it’s too personal you can just tell me to go to hell.” He stammers. “Ana? Does she know?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Wow. Okay. That’s what I thought.” His eyes roll around in thought. “You two are . . .” He hesitates, tilts his head. “You know . . . ?”
“Yes.”
“And it’s safe, right?”
“It’s safe.”
“Wow. I mean damn. I don’t know what to say. What should I say? Is there anything to say? Hell, I don’t even know how to act. This is really fucked up, you know. It’s all fucked up.” He looks to me. His eyes grow large with excitement and are bright and earnest in the fluorescent light. “You got fucked,” he vociferates loudly. “You
As the temperature rises from frigid to just cold, plumes of vapor hover just above the river’s surface while, nearby, the tread of cars crossing Memorial Bridge breaks the quiet. On the opposite shore an egret dives for food, dipping its beak close to where the battleship is permanently docked. Then there is the barge: moving heavy in the water, heading downriver on a course set to collide with our fragile skiff.
“We’ve got to get out of its wake,” one of the rowers yells, panic visible on his back-turned face.
I shout out power strokes that require the men to use all their might, and, trying to outpower the other ship’s mechanical motor, we stroke feverishly to the other shore. As the barge passes, the men use their oars to balance atop the large waves that curl from its bow and churn whitely from its stern. We rock dangerously, but keep our bodies centered, our minds focused, and soon the river calms again and the skiff no longer bobs. We are safe.
We row to a spot upchannel, an artery of the Cape Fear that is even calmer than the river herself. Here the men practice shifting in their seats, rolling to the catch, and flipping their oars for a smooth and strong pull in the water. We are silent: I hear the splash of water, the grunt of the rowers, the click of wooden oars slapping against wooden boat, and then the quiet flow of the river as we slip through it.
November 1991. It is after Thanksgiving. I’ve just returned from the family holiday and have been busy with papers and prepping for final exams. Sean—a freshman who rooms down the hall—sits across from me underneath Krispy Kreme’s “Hot Now” sign as we both take a needed study break. His dark brown hair curls from the humidity and his amber eyes widen and dart around in a twitch. We eat doughnuts, sip coffee. Often this semester,we have come here: to sit, to eat, to talk. And though we have said much, I have not said enough. At least not until now.
“I’ve got something to tell you.” And I begin: tell of my hemophilia, my HIV. Sean stops eating his doughnut and brings both hands to his coffee cup’s lid, where they fidget abstractly. Save for the sound of our breathing, it is quiet. I hear the rasp-heavy voice of a smoker ordering at the counter, the mellifluous trickle of a cup of coffee being poured, the click of a metal car door outside, the strain of the glass door being opened, the quiet laughter of a couple entering. I sip my coffee.
“That’s heavy,” Sean says. “Really heavy.”
His finger traces the napkin’s Krispy Kreme symbol as a child just learning to write. He stares into his coffee, looks outside the window, runs his hand through his hair, and breathes out heavy. “For what it’s worth, I’m glad you told me . . . I’m not sure that I can help any, but if my knowing helps then I’m glad.” He pauses, sips his coffee, sets it back on the tabletop. “But I’ve got a million questions, and I don’t even know where to start. But one in particular is just nagging at me, and if it’s too personal you can just tell me to go to hell.” He stammers. “Ana? Does she know?”
“Yes. Of course.”
“Wow. Okay. That’s what I thought.” His eyes roll around in thought. “You two are . . .” He hesitates, tilts his head. “You know . . . ?”
“Yes.”
“And it’s safe, right?”
“It’s safe.”
“Wow. I mean damn. I don’t know what to say. What should I say? Is there anything to say? Hell, I don’t even know how to act. This is really fucked up, you know. It’s all fucked up.” He looks to me. His eyes grow large with excitement and are bright and earnest in the fluorescent light. “You got fucked,” he vociferates loudly. “You
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