Within yelling distance

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Peel memory one billion and one: having the first overwhelmingly gigantic meal (RED MEAT) in Dawson City and drinking an overwhelming amount of red wine and doing the nasty sourtoe shot thing (tequila, natch) and being surrounded by new people and a whole new set of social requirements (I actually used the men’s washroom, considering the urinals only briefly and then dismissing them before surprising a man on his way in and remembering oh, yes, society=gendered bathrooms, as opposed to the equalizing magic of an utterly neutral hole in the ground) and needing so desperately to escape from everyone for a second and remembering that yes, off the Peel I was technically able to make my own decisions and be my own person.

And so, breaking away from the group in what felt like a huge explosion of rule-breaking, groupthink smashing self actualization, but was actually just walking about fifty steps down the boardwalk, I sparked up a joint that I had been gifted post-Peel, inhaled deeply, dramatically deeply as if my performance was being evaluated, and exhaled every fucking worry, ever. Exhaled into a sky made strange by streetlights and multi-story structures, but with enough stars to still feel like (the latest incarnation of) home.

And yes, when the group, equally bonded to me as I to them, recognized that one of their own was missing and came out the door and called my name, I was, as required on the trip, within yelling distance. And actually pretty relieved when they came down the boardwalk and surrounded me again. Relieved that they would still come looking.

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