Wild Enough

There is a cabin in the woods of Nisswa, Minnesota that smells like lake water and wet dog. The odor seeps into everything it touches: the well-worn carpet, littered with stray crumbs; the padded porch swing, streaked with dog hair; the tiny hand towels, damp and limp in the narrow kitchen and miniature bathroom. Held together by faded yellow siding and cobweb-covered windows, the stooped building hovers above Lake Hubert, where every August six families gather for three days of outdoors, heavy carbs, and shared identity.

We call this place the China Cabin; an ode to our Chinese adoption group. Six girls and one boy plucked from ramshackle orphanages and transported to the Land of Ten Thousand Lakes. Six sets of parents, six siblings, and two dogs. Now, significant others, grandchildren, and even more dogs.

When we were younger, I loved the China Cabin. I remember sleeping in the tent with the girls, staying up late belting Justin Bieber songs and giggling through impromptu pillow fights.

“Settle down now, girls,” our moms would say as they passed by the tent, flashlights in hand. “You’re too wild.”

The next day, I remember scrambling up moss-covered stone steps, all scabbed knees and sun-touched skin, ready for my mom’s famous walking tacos after an afternoon in the lake. The smell of the greasy meat would make me dizzy with relief, and I made sure to pile my Doritos bag high with yellow rice, shredded lettuce, and sour cream. Us kids would sit outside on the rough wooden picnic table trading stories about the day’s events while my mom called out for any takers for seconds and thirds.

I remember on Saturday nights we would drink orange Crush floats that fizzled on my tongue and buzzed underneath my skin while the adults celebrated with beer and champagne. Most of all, I remember being down at the dock: watching the murky blue water first thing in the morning; later, jumping into the water hand-in-hand with the girls, and then later still, the thrill of the wind in my face and the screams in the air as we flew through the water on an inflatable tube.

Back then I didn’t shrink from the bugs crawling along the walls or the dog drool on the boat cushions. I didn’t care that the only dignified places to relieve yourself were either a wooden outhouse surrounded by overgrown weeds or a tiny white bathroom with the window open so that people can hear you when you pee. I was more open then, just as curious about the red field ants crawling along the stone path as I was about the girls’ crushes.

Sometimes, I wonder how I could bring this girl back.

Sometimes, I wonder if she even existed at all.

*

It begins at twelve years old–though in truth, it begins much earlier. I stumble out of my family’s silver Dodge Caravan, muscles sore from the three-hour drive up north.

Despite the mid-seventy degree weather, I’m wearing a dark cyan, fleece-lined hoodie. It’s thick and heavy and carries a perpetual musk. I can feel the sweat pooling in my armpits and in my palms, but when I look down at myself and feel the fat on my thighs, I tug the hoodie further down my body.

I’ve been anxious about my body lately. Although I won’t admit it, I’ve spent hours in front of the bathroom mirror, twisting and turning, contorting my stomach until it resembles my desired shape. I’ve found myself sitting in the middle of pre-algebra class or practicing a dance sequence in second-level jazz when I get this urge to pinch skin. I imagine my fingers squeezing the flabby patches on the undersides of my arms, down my sides, along my calves, squeezing until it hurts.

My mom has assured me I’m not fat, but my heart still beats unsteadily when I’m standing at the edge of the dock fifteen minutes later. The girls are playing chicken fight in the lake; two of them hoist the others onto their shoulders and begin to wrestle, each pair trying to knock the other into the water. I linger on dry land, arms wrapped around the middle of my neon rainbow tankini, feeling inexplicably vulnerable without the protection of my fleece hoodie.

The girls don’t seem to notice how I feel, or even feel the same. They all wear bikinis: black scraps that flaunt their toned legs, flat stomachs, and natural curves–none of which I have. Puberty will eventually widen some of their proportions, but right now, next to them, all I know is that I am thicker with my wider thighs and square-like proportions.

The hand around my middle tightens, but the girls call out to me. “Come on, join us!” “What are you waiting for?” “You’re missing all the fun!” “The water’s not too bad.”

Their comments make me pause. What am I waiting for? The water’s not too bad. I look down at the lake–a thick blue-green today. I can barely make out what’s underneath the surface.

Maybe the water will help hide my body, I think–a little naively, a little desperately. Hesitantly, I slip off my flip-flops and dip my toes into the lake. Then I begin to sink into the water, and sensations flood.

The transition from land to water is always a little jarring: goosebumps ripple across bare arms as the body adjusts to the drop in temperature; a feeling of weightlessness takes over the limbs as buoyancy counteracts gravity. And yet at this moment, my body has never felt so disjointed, so heavy.

Murky blue-green water filled with sand particles and algae rushes up to meet me as I submerge myself from the waist-down all the way to chest height. The clouded water is a foreign substance, brushing against my bare thighs and clinging to my rounded stomach in an intimate gesture–a witness to the parts of me I no longer want displayed or touched.

Around me, the girls continue laughing and splashing and yelling. My mouth makes all the right sounds, cheering as they compete again and again with their bodies. The girls show their prowess with their strong and capable limbs, their bare skin flashing on display in the sunlight, not a care in the world.

All the while, I tread water, the pads of my feet skimming the slimy sand underneath. Each pass of my legs is a reminder of everything that exists here in this lake. Each movement is a confirmation of the way my spandex swimsuit molds to my frame, suffocating my upper body in an embrace too tight for comfort. I can’t shake the feeling that my body is being violated somehow.

It's the first of many times I don’t enjoy swimming in the lake.

*

Tubing is the next to go.

At first, despite my increasing aversion to swimming, I still look forward to it. There’s something about the wind, the rush of adrenaline, the shared laughter amongst me and my tube mates, that makes me feel alive–or so I believe. But by the time I hit fourteen, my attitude towards tubing begins to shift as well, especially with my growing awareness of my body.

It happens on an early Saturday afternoon during that summer I’m fourteen. Squeezed in an electric-orange tankini and black life jacket, I step onto the four-person, Spiderman-red-and-blue tube floating in the lake. The tube rocks slightly under my weight, but it settles after I plunk myself down in the seat on the right.

It’s one of those perfect August days: bright open sky, glorious sunlight, and the faintest hint of a breeze every now and then. But as I sit there, waiting for another one of the girls to hop onto the tube and complete our quartet, I can’t help but wonder if nature and I must be more disconnected than I thought. Because right now, the weather inside me is anything but calm.

A bowling ball has lodged itself in my stomach, weighing me down, filling me up. It threatens to expand beyond the confines of my swimsuit as it pushes the padded life jacket farther away from my body. As if the immense pressure wasn’t enough, a rumble climbs up my throat every couple of minutes. It forces itself out of my mouth in a croak–a cry for help, though of what, I’m not entirely sure.

I’ve been noticing these feelings more and more. Through monitoring my habits, I’ve come to learn that they often occur after I eat–particularly after rich, large meals like burgers, brats, and grilled chicken. Although it will be almost another decade before I have names to give these sensations, I understand enough to know I shouldn’t be participating in physical activities after the hearty meal we just had.

Nevertheless, here we are: water tubing in the early afternoon. The last girl settles into her seat on the right, and then the adults push us away from the boat and we prepare for the ride.

As we float further and further out, the girls shout things like, “Go as fast as possible!” and “Make us hit the big waves!” I try to match their energy, but the storm inside my body dampens any enthusiasm. Plus, for reasons I don’t understand, the girls have increasingly expressed a desire to go faster and be more daring while out on the water. Maybe it’s because we’re about to enter high school and everything we do is supposed to be bigger, bolder, cooler. Or maybe it’s just how they are at the cabin: wild in the wilderness. Whatever it is, lately I’ve found myself struggling to share their sentiments.

The boat’s engine rumbles and our tube jolts forward, scattering my thoughts. I wrap my fingers around the red side handles just as the rope between the boat and our tube pulls taut. I can feel the tug deep in my gut. And then we’re moving, sitting up inside the wake.

At first it’s just slight bumps and water spray. The pressure in my stomach expands with every little bounce, but it’s mostly just uncomfortable–not anything out of the ordinary. But then the boat picks up speed, creating a wind that slaps at my cheeks and stings my eyelids. And all of a sudden, the boat turns a sharp right, dragging us with it.

Pain radiates from the area beneath my chest and down to my hips as our tube catapults over the wake. Careening to the right, I can feel the pressure from the rope within my own body as everything tightens and tilts dangerously to the side. My heart pounds and my hands squeeze the handles in a death grip as my entire body hovers over the water–water that may look innocent on the surface, but I know if I were to fall in, is anything but.

I try to give myself a pep talk, especially when the boat turns left and we’re flung the other way. This pain will pass. And, You’ve gotten through this before. You can do it again.

But these words give me pause. I think about all the times I’ve said them before: when I was five, just learning how to tube; when I was twelve and beginning to feel discomfort in my body; when I was thirteen; now. And I start to wonder if I’ve always been this way while tubing: white-knuckled, sensitive, and deeply suspicious of the water that, at this very moment, is itself being forcefully disturbed by boat and gasoline. How have I missed these feelings before? And what, then, is even the point of tubing?

I glance at the girls to see if they’re having similar thoughts, but they’re all screaming with unbridled enthusiasm, eyes alight and expressions fierce as if to say, Bring it on. Once again, I’m the odd one out. I swallow my feelings down.

One of the moms on the boat puts a camera to her eye and shouts, “Smile!” I force my lips in an imitation of a smile, hoping someone and no one will read the storm raging through my body, my mind.

*

By the time I turn sixteen, the dock becomes my one place of solace. When the girls pile into the boat to go tubing after lunch, I stay back at the dock. I sit at the edge, my upper body wrapped in a loose sweatshirt and my bare feet dangling over the water. A comfort book rests in my lap. As I sit there–breathing, moving gently–I listen to the lapping of the waves, the crinkle of book pages turning, and I whisper to myself, “This. This is what I want.”

I start to look forward to the dock more and more, especially as my body issues worsen and the girls’ and my interests drift apart, causing them and me to gradually become less close. Yet, even my relationship with the dock sours eventually, too.

First it’s my mom, and how she reprimands me for “isolating myself” whenever she finds me sitting by myself at the dock. Each time that happens, I’m forced to turn away from my serene surroundings and go upstairs, where I pretend to be fierce, bold, and energetic–never mind that I can feel the bowling ball in my stomach again.

And then it’s the grandkids, or simply, “the kids”: the newest generation of littles running around who belong to one of the girls’ older sisters. Totaling five in number and all under the age of seven, they seem to take up the entire space with their shrieking, splashing, and playing.

The girls and adults react to the kids with enthusiasm: holding the kids’ hands, showing them how to tube and float in the water, and keeping them engaged by talking to them in high-pitched voices. But I stay away. I don’t know how to handle the kids’ energy, their zest for life. A voice in the back of my mind whispers that it’s because I’ve become so far removed from that version of me. I don’t know how to be that curious girl anymore, not since my body issues took over my life.

It’s then, the summer that I’m nineteen, that I realize there is not a single space at the China Cabin in which I feel safe. Not the lake, teeming with foreign substances and girls who want to go wild. Not the dock, overrun by kids who zip up and down and drench the wooden planks with their splashing. Not even inside the cabin, which I’m beginning to realize smells unpleasant–like wet dog–and which contains too much junk food that, when faced with stomach pains, loses all its appeal.

So that summer, I spend the entire weekend in the tent. While everyone else congregates for outdoor activities, I lie on top of my sleeping bag, clothed in long-sleeve pajamas, my face unwashed and hair a tangled mess.

The sun is out in full force that weekend, creating a thick, muggy atmosphere inside the tent. Normally I’d suffocate in the dense layer of heat, but this time, I sink into it. And I breathe.

Sometimes I close my eyes and lie there in silence. Other times I pop in my blue-corded earbuds and listen to music. I let the sounds of the instruments and the artists’ voices wash over me like waves–the same way I do at night, when I’m lying awake wracked by lower body spasms as the girls sleep peacefully beside me.

On the surface, it looks like I couldn’t be more separated from nature. There is no fresh air except for the little that flows through the tent’s mesh windows. There is no earthy scent of lake water, light tickle of grass, tingling prick of mosquitoes for my body to experience.

But just beneath the surface lies a different story, one that suggests I am not entirely removed from the natural world. As I lie there inside the tent, surrendering to my surroundings, I begin to sense it. It’s carried in my heartbeat, the way my heart’s tempo quickens in response to the sun’s ubiquitous presence. It rests in the way my body’s temperature climbs to match that of its environment. It whispers as my ears pick up the rustling of trees, the squawking of squirrels. It makes itself known when I feel the ground beneath my sleeping bag, hard and rough against my back.

The truth dawns on me slowly: even when I try to close myself off, my body–my very being–is still intimately tied to the natural world. This connection, rooted in physiology and a quiet kind of being, is not the type I’ve been taught to recognize or celebrate. But it’s there, all the same.

At nineteen this realization is only a seed, too small and soft to recognize against the loudness of my pain and disillusionment. But in two years’ time, when I choose to stay home the weekend of the China Cabin, I’ll crack open the windows as a rumble of thunder fills the atmosphere and the first droplets of rain ping onto the pavement. I’ll sit in the living room with a book in my lap, listening to the pitter-patter of rain, the rustle of branches in the wind.

One hundred miles away, a group of twenty-some people gobble up pizza at a nearby restaurant, tramp in the lake, and stay up, drinking and shrieking and playing, long into the night. I may not be outdoors like them, running with abandon, exposed to the elements without much cover or reprieve. But the cool breeze rushes up on my skin, sparking goosebumps. The pages crinkle as I turn them one by one.

Here I am: sitting, breathing, listening. For me, right now, this is enough.

-Brianna Lange

Brianna Lange is a senior at Hamline University, where she studies English and communications with a concentration in writing, editing, and publishing. Originally a fiction writer, she now experiments with different genres in order to make sense of the childhood experiences that have shaped her. She was a student editor for the eleventh issue of Runestone, Hamline’s undergraduate literary journal. She enjoys character-driven stories, romance novels and body memoirs, and the sound of rain.