The River Buddha

Rainer, the River Buddha. Photo by David Lansing.

There are four of us, plus Arlo, in our little inflatable boat: Me, my daughter, and a gay couple from Berkeley, Rainer and Brian. This afternoon as we floated oh-so-slowly down the river, I noticed that Rainer, while sitting stiffly upright in the front of the boat, facing backwards, was snoring even though he looked wide awake. His partner, Brian—thin and boyishly handsome—trailed a hand in the still water, like Ophelia, and sighed.

“Rain-eeer,” he said in a little boy’s sing-song voice. And then, as the snoring continued, a little more persistently: “RAIN-eeer.”

Rainer, who is pleasantly round and still retains his lovely German accent, snorted and slowly turned his head in Brian’s direction.

“You were snoring, dear,” Brian sang out. “Very bad manners so early on our trip with new friends.” Brian gave me a long look of exasperation, like a mother perplexed as to why her child can’t stop squirming at grandma’s dinner table.

Rainer took a deep breath. “I snore to let myself know I sleep,” he said in a voice that was barely audible.

It had a mysterious truth to it. Like a koan.

Our river guide, Arlo, his skin the color and texture of a well-worn saddle, gave a low chuckle and lifted the oars out of the water. He stroked his goatee and said, “He sounds like a river Buddha.”

Rainer, assuming a yoga position in the front of the boat, legs folded, palms up, said, “Ya, that’s right. I’m the River Buddha. Please be respectful.”

And then he fell asleep again and the snoring resumed. Only now it sounded oddly comforting. Like the steady swish of Arlo’s oars dipping into the river.