O canoeiro dorival caymmi biography
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Shwacking
Fear burned in my body as we launched our tiny boats onto the vast fast vatten, a strong wind whipping up whitecaps and magnifying the rapids. My efforts at control were no match for the frightful power of the deep current, the churning eddies, the rocks and rapids. On a mountain bike, fear skids me out of my flow, and inom tense and hit every rock and cut short the curving berms, and feel close to crashing. Now, on this huge current of water, I am stiff and afraid and not having a good time at all. Fear affects the quality of my experience, always. But I remembered the dusty trails and the times I had found the flow and had raced fearless and free and skilled down the mountain. Intense. Joyful. And I relaxed now on the water, feeling my tiny boat in the groove of the current, feeling my tiny boat bob humbly and determinedly through the rapids, feeling the effects of each nuanced paddle stroke. Fear had turned to fun, and John and I called to each other, two men,
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jangada
The doorbell rang, and my friends, our friends, came happily through the door I opened for them. One spoke no English. Another spoke no Portuguese. The other five all spoke fluently or toward the proficient end of the spectrum. On the menu was Indian butter chicken, which I had simmered and stirred in the crock pot all day, to be served over coconut basmati rice. inom had arranged the visit because I love Portuguese and inom love Brazil and I like her and her friends, and wanted to meet her mother who is here for a month from Brazil. I pulled the dining room table apart and inserted the two leaves that allowed us to comfortably seat ten. She contributed cotton candy grapes, delightfully delicious. The conversation slid quickly into the old times of 1956 and 1964 and 1972, when Dad and Mom knew their families, the old ones now passed away. And Dad launched into all the old stories about becoming honorary members of an indigenous tribe, about trips to the beaches at Sa