Como será que a veces remando,
me pregunto que si no es por esto ¿qué haría?
Y la verdad no tengo respuesta,
sin mi río, no sé me ocurre de mí qué sería.
Y si es que rezo de vez en cuando,
no es para pedir salvación,
ni mucho menos protección.
Yo no pido ninguna ayuda o garantía.
Yo rezo para que esto siga siempre,
y no se acabe. Es como una precaución.
Me dicen que las penas, Dios me las dio,
y hasta el momento lo más bien que las aguanto.
Con mi canto les cuento, y quiero que sepan
que cuando me canse de este mundo,
no se las dejo a otro, pero me las llevo todas,
río abajo y remando.
mt
I wrote this a while back. There is nothing better, in my mind, than to be connected daily to a good river. Thanks to a strong current and twice a day outgoing tides, a good river rushes out to sea, renewing everything on its way.
I started rowing at five. My brother Pablo, was my copilot, and he was three. Through the years when we wanted something good to laugh about, we talked about our adventures rowing. We were lucky: we were free range kids with a whole river to ourselves. I’ve never forgotten those times. The oars were so big, we each took one—and they were still big. Even so, somehow we managed to bail and row; in circles sometimes or out to sea if the current or tide was too strong. A few times we had to be rescued, but still, we rowed.
Of note: Not once were we rescued and asked what in the hell we were doing. Those doing the rescuing, I imagine, had once been rescued themselves, so, rescuing kids in our town was a tradition of sorts—the only reason there were any kids left in town. We all rowed.