An Indoor Girl

Look, I rode a donkey up the cliffs of Crete, waterskied down the Colorado River, and hiked the Cinque Terra. I trekked through the Mayan jungle and climbed Tikal. I hiked the pine forest above Rio Caliente, scaled Nevada Falls, and climbed rickety ladders to peer into ancient painted caves in New Mexico. I explored the top of Monte Alban, where I came close to sacrificing my teenage son to the gods. I did a ropes course, though I only did the morning session. When I found out the afternoon was in the treetops, I bailed. I’m no Julia Butterfly Hill.

I’ve flown in the back of a four-seater out of Belize, the training pilot’s first flight with passengers. For no reason, I took an airplane ride from Schellville Airport in a tin can made of papier mache and balsa wood that was the same color but smaller than my BMW. I asked David what I should wear. He said a red teddy would be nice. I borrowed Elaina’s and wore it under my jean jacket until it was time to board. There are pictures …

Once I rode a horse. When it bucked me, Eric said get back on. If you don’t, you’ll never get on one again. Sure. As if I had any intention of ever getting back on a horse. Years later, when I found myself on an old packhorse named Ike in Yosemite, it all came rushing back to me.

Bats and biting flies were the high points of beach-camping at the Salton Sea. I’ve whitewater rafted both forks of the American River. When I flipped out at Troublemaker and got caught in a whirlpool, time slowed, and I thought, oh, so this is how I’m going to die. When I popped back up an eternity later, I frantically paddled to shore. They said I had to get back in the raft. I said pffft, I’m walking back to camp. They said you can’t, there are bears in the woods. I said I’ll take my chances.

Today, when I’m invited camping, I make a list of what I need:
    1. New friends

In Florida, I sat cheek-to-jowl on a live alligator. Trapped in the Tropical Butterfly House in Seattle, I ducked and covered whenever one silently hovered anywhere near me. I got seasick snorkeling in the warm waters off Ixtapa, then petrified an eel might slither by. (I scream the same way whether I’m about to be attacked by a great white shark or a piece of seaweed touches my leg.) And I’ve slid down more damn black diamond ski slopes than I care to remember.

Have I enjoyed any of it? No. I was usually terrified. Would I do any of it again? Nope. I don’t have to, I don’t want to, and you can’t make me. None of it was my idea in the first place, and clearly, I didn’t think things through. I just wanted to do things with my kids and hang out with friends.

I’m simply not an outdoor person. I prefer museums, old churches, and art galleries. I like restaurants and movies, bookstores and ice cream parlors. Partial to villages and open markets, I also prefer small towns to big cities and big cities over jungles. I’ve flown in a typhoon and been lost in a hurricane. When I was nine, we lived in Hawaii; Hurricane Nina hit and I got turned around and couldn’t find my way home from school. The hills where we lived were like a jungle. I hate the jungle. I find the wilderness overrated. I read Wild, by Cheryl Strayed, and thought, this woman is a complete and total lunatic. She slogged across a thousand miles of the Pacific Coast Trail, grieving the death of her mother. She could have skipped the trip for godsakes and gotten some therapy. Or at least had hiking shoes that fit.

I love the beach (unless it’s raining or windy), and I prefer lying in the sun on soft white sand where I can see the horizon and anything coming my way.

Big Sur, California July 1967 (age 19), when I thought nothing of lying in the sun

With utter disdain, my sister Liz once asked me if I was born in a box. I said, yes, and I rather fancy it in here, so leave me alone. I’m an indoor girl, and I like it that way. I favor places where my chances of getting stung, bitten, kicked, gored, attacked, pecked to death, or eaten alive are at a minimum. Where it’s warm and dry and safe. Where the playing field is level, you know, like a dance floor. 

© 2018. Catherine Sevenau.
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