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272 pages, Paperback
First published January 1, 1972
Onions. Onions. Multilayered, multilevelled, ovate, imbricated, white-fleshed, orange-scaled onions. Native to Asia. Aromatic when bruised. When my turn is over and a break comes for me, I am so crazed with lust for these bulbous herbs—these enlarged, compressed buds—that I run to an unharvested row and pull from the earth a one-pound onion, rip off the membranous bulb coat, bare the flesh, and sink my teeth through leaf after leaf after savory mouth-needling sweet-sharp water-bearing leaf to the flowering stalk that is the center and the secret of the onion. Yash at the end of the day will give me three hundred pounds of onions to take home, and well past the fall they will stand in their sacks in a corner of the kitchen—the pluperfect preservers of sweet, fresh moisture—holding in winter the rains of summer.
Pritchard—young, handsome, tall—stood there towering above the floating nuclear plants and looking doubtful. As it happened, he had been born in Belfast and educated at Oxford. He was the author of a book called Turtles of the World. Kehnemuyi—stocky, with short-cropped graying hair and shining brown eyes—had grown up in Istanbul, where his father was an importer of fine stationery. And now here they were, paths crossed, a Turk educated in Illinois and an Irishman from Oxford, standing in an artificial ocean in Florida and joining the issue of a floating nuclear plant off the coast of New Jersey and aspects of it that conceivably could concern the world.
Game 5 under way. They are pummelling the machine. They are heavy on the corners but light on the flippers, and the scoreboard is reacting like a storm at sea. With three balls down, both are in the thirty-thousand range. Buckley, going unorthodox, plays his fourth ball with one foot off the floor, and raises his score to forty-five thousand points—more than he scored in winning the two previous games. He smiles. He is on his way in, flaring, with still another ball to play. Now Lukas snaps his fourth ball into the ellipse. It moves down and around the board, hitting slingshots and flippers and rising again and again to high ground to begin additional scoring runs. It hits sunburst caps and hole kickers, swinging targets and bonus gates. Minute upon minute, it stays in play. It will not die.
The rapid is beautiful, bouldery, and bending—the forest rising steeply from the two sides. It is called the Big Black Rapid because it is near the mouth of the Big Black River, which flows into the St. John a mile downstream. There is nothing black about the rapid. It is blue and mostly white, running over big rocks and ledges, with standing waves on long diagonals, like ranges of hills. The wind is so stiff now it is tearing spray off the tops of the waves. The rapid curves left, then right. If I thought I had one chance in ten of going into the river, I wouldn’t run the rapid. I would line it—let the canoe down slowly on ropes—or carry around it. If I do get a thrill out of missing a rock and flying along on racing water, that is not what I came for. The rapid is only a part of the river—of a hundred and some miles of this trip and this part of the St. John—and the highest pleasure I can derive from running it is to get from the beginning to the end of the stretch of white water with canoe and cargo sound and, if possible, dry. This is a canoe trip, not a rodeo. When the Canadian voyageurs, in the eighteenth and nineteenth centuries, came to rapids in their bark canoes, they did not seek out the deepest souse holes and the highest standing waves. With their four-ton cargoes of furs, they looked for the fil d’eau —the safest, surest route through the rapid. For us, just being out here—in this country, on this river—is the purpose of the journey, and not shooting like spears to hit God knows what and where. A test of courage is not the point—not my point, anyway. I have too little courage to waste any on a test. In our own fashion, with our own bulging gear lashed into the four canoes, we had better think like the voyageurs.
The dacquoise resembles cake and puts up a slight crunchy resistance before it effects a melting disappearance between tongue and palate and a swift transduction through the bloodstream to alight in the brain as a poem.
The first of what could be a whole lot of McPhee for me (thanks, Morgan!). Not a word out of place; still lively and vivid: I heard a truck backfire in New York City, I tasted strange things in a secret restaurant, I heard a river do a thing I didn’t even know rivers could do. If there’s a problem with reading little journeys like these it’s that it threatens to substitute, too well, for taking (much less writing) my own.