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The letter says our stuff got all wet in San Sebastian. I thought it was in Pamplona. We both slept under my plastic tarp in separate sleeping bags. She went to bed before me when it was raining apparently, and even though I had stressed that the system of the tarp, depended on nothing underneath the top sheet be exposed in the rain, that is exactly what she did, and water ran under the bags and they both got wet. I think she slept in my sleeping bag with me, since my bag may have been drier, although I cannot imagine how that would work now, but it is amazing how one can sleep in the most uncomfortable position when young and in love. I remember it was an uncomfortable night.
By the letter the following non-event took place before the previous two, whereas I remember it in the order as written here, and which makes a better story - artist's license. Seven in the early evening, the last ride of the day, a long one taking us to near the Spanish border around dark. It was hot - sweat continually flowing heavy and sticky into my eyes. Our ride began to follow a river, shallow and wide, with people standing waist high in the coolness - for us, as body depth markers midstream. It was perfect for offshore back-float swimming, down current channel. Stop. Stand. Swim up-river underwater fighting the flow, darting through the ebb like minnows in sunny shallows - splash cleansing salt baked dust from our faces, now knee deep in shaded flow, slight breeze blowing, forming a film of goose bumps.
Stop the car - let us out our bodies screamed, but our minds sat in silence, like two manikins in a still-life's running regret.
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