hey idk so..,,new to this blog so heres a trans headcanon from YA BOY (ps i use they/them pronouns forgot to mention that oops)
so. here me out. trans boy jacksepiceye.
trans boy jack barely havin money to fly out let alone get any surgeries. trans boy jack being loud & high-pitched so people think its an act not his real voice. trans boy jack only out to mark (who’s gender questioning as well) who is super cool about it but he always worries about how he really thinks of him. trans boy jack literally blacklisting youtube comments because theres so many calling him ‘girly’ or 'way too feminine’ for his sanity. trans boy jack wearing baggy sweaters & jeans all the time, always. trans boy jack hiding under hats & beanies when he goes out & with videos. trans boy jack sticking to mark at vidcon because god hes so scared oh god what if someone sees the binder strap what if someone finds his t shots what if what if what if. trans boy jack going by two male names so nobody thinks to go looking for his birthname.
trans boy jacksepticeye.
I am finally pressured into trying punting. I refuse at first, but I am forced to relent. After all, when would I get another chance at punting once I leave England at the end of the summer? I stand up slowly and try to stabilize the rocking boat. I head back to the stern and step up onto the till — a flat, platform-like area at the rear of the boat where the punter stands. It is terrifying at first, but I hold a wide-legged stance to keep my balance.
Rachel and Jessica, acquaintances who are also studying at Gonville and Caius College, hand over the pole to me. I lift it over my shoulders, and I realize that it is a lot heavier than I thought it would be. I put the pole into the river like I am an ancient heroic figure, slaying a sea monster. The pole is almost two-thirds in, and I still cannot feel the bottom. I begin to panic. My hands are already clammy from the hot sun above, making it difficult to firmly grip the pole. I have no idea what the hell I am doing, and I am stuck among what appears to be a vast sea of other boats trafficking past me. I finally feel the bottom of the river. I push. Harder and harder. I keep pushing against the pole. Our punt barely moves forward. At this point, I am really frustrated. Another tourist piloting a punt almost collides with us, and I nearly lose my footing, about to fall in the river.
* * * * *
Punting, like rowing or traveling by gondola, is an art that requires patience, skill, and a high attention to detail. It also helps to be confident and to have a good sense of balance. As you stand on a platform, called the till, located at the stern of the punt, it is imperative to, with your forward hand, throw the pole vertically down into the water. The pole must be close to the side of the punt itself and should be guided with your lower hand. As the pole falls all the way to the bottom and touches the riverbank, reach forward with both hands and pull the pole gently past your chest. Then, at the end of each stroke, relax and allow the pole to float up behind you. In this way, you can let the pole act as a rudder; if you steer the pole to the left or to the right, then the punt will turn either left or right respectively. Finally, when the punt is going straight, recover the pole hand over hand until you can throw it down again to begin the next stroke. One should make habit, however, to relax at the end of each stroke. Doing so can avoid falling in the river, should the pole unexpectedly get stuck in the mud, which happens more than one might think.
* * * * *
For the first time in two weeks, there was sunshine. Bright, glorious warmth made the dew-filled grass sparkle like emeralds. Birds flew parallel to the white, fluffy clouds above. What more was there to do on such a marvelous day in Cambridge than to go punting on the River Cam? Adorning sunglasses, sneakers, a tee shirt, and cargo shorts, my friends and I decided to venture out of Gonville and Caius to do just that.
As we stepped through the arched entrance of our summer college onto the uneven cobblestones street, the temperate sun enveloped our bodies. It was pleasant to have a day devoted to summer weather. The narrow streets were crowded with slow-walking tourists and cyclists that sped by. We made our way in between the petite colleges that composed Cambridge University, following tributaries of the River Cam to an isolated spot behind Trinity College.
We noticed a sign that read, “Punt Yourself, £15/hr, £40 Deposit.” The area was a bit shady, as we were located off the beaten path, standing next to a slightly dilapidated building. Attached to the building was a wooden door, dark brown with age and golden highlights. One of its wooden planks read the Latin phrase, “NE VILE VELIS,” in green uppercase letters. Apparently, this expression was the personal motto of Thomas Neville — a Master of Trinity College and a crucial leader in the War of the Roses back in the sixteenth century.
Suddenly, an older British gentleman glided over to us. He was thin with glasses and had long, silvery wisps of hair. He held what appeared to be a self-wrapped “cigarette” in his hand, and quirkily chirped, “You guys looking to punt?” His thick British accent reminded me of a Hogwarts professor who could have taught punting as an elective.
“Yeah. All four of us would like to punt ourselves for an hour,” replied Stacy. As a graduate student, she was the eldest of our group and eager to go on a new adventure.
“Alright,” he uttered, “that will be a £40 deposit.” He pointed over to a wooden boat that was bobbing up and down from the slight waves generated by other punts drifting by. “Take that boat right there. If you guys go over the hour limit, it’s an additional £3 per fifteen minutes. But, don’t worry. I’m lenient if it’s only five to ten minutes over. When you get back, you can pay me what you owe, and I’ll give you the deposit back. Have fun!”
The four of us stepped down the sandy embankment and onto the wooden platform where all the punts were moored. I noticed that each punt had its own unique name; our punt’s name was Cheer. We carefully half climbed and half crawled our way onto the narrow, wooden boat, which easily swerved and tipped. Stacy, beautiful, athletic, and determined, made her way to the stern, or the back of the punt, with the ten pound heavy, twelve foot long pole that would be used to propel us up and downstream. The older gentleman undocked our boat, and we gradually drifted onto the Cam.
Stacy was poised and ready for the ensuing ride, sporting a red tank top, navy blue athletic trunks, a bright orange visor, and orange-tinted sunglasses. She delved the pole into the Cam, hit ground, and pushed off. Amidst the plethora of other punting boats, we veered off in a diagonal direction. I made use of a paddle that was located in our vessel and made quick strokes, attempting to veer us in the right direction. Stacy realized that we were punting against the current.
She lifted the pole out of the water, and the boat swung around, while the current carried us downstream. The river was a murky, brown color, with white foam that lapped up against our boat and the stoned walls that contained the canal. I began to ponder what it would be like to fall in such a grimy river. The very thought petrified me. Gross.
As we continued to meander under low bridges and through the lush, green curtains of willow trees (which were all quite nice to escape the very warm sun for a few minutes), I noticed the large numbers of punts that were in our vicinity — about two dozen! Most punts that passed by had about fifteen or so people onboard, and the punters themselves were very good looking and muscular European men. They were barefoot and wore tight-fitted collar shirts and knee-length khaki shorts. They were obviously punting professionals, as they navigated around other boats with ease. The average, inexperienced tourist could also be seen punting with their families, as they managed to collide with walls and other punts. Some punts that passed by, however, were more romantic, with couples cuddling next to each other while sharing a bottle of wine.
As Stacy grew tired from punting, my two other friends switched places with her to try to punt themselves; we quickly became that tourist boat as we spun around in circles like hands on the face of a clock, dodging walls and bridge pillars, and scraping against the sides of other boats.
* * * * *
I am able to maintain my balance on the till, with a wide stance and arms stretched out like a surfer. I flash the tourist a snarling look.
“Sorry,” the tourist says, in a sarcastic, British accent. I want to chuck the pole like a spear into him. I do not even know if my friends in the boat realize how much I am struggling with everything that is going on.
“Wait, so what do I do? I can’t do this, guys,” I say.
“Just thrust the pole to the bottom and push off. Leave the pole in the water. As it raises to the surface, use it to steer the boat like a rudder,” Stacy replies in a calm manner. She is very reassuring, and she is also a lot more athletically inclined than I am. It is highly intimidating.
“Got it,” I retort. But, I really do not understand. I try her method, but it is a lot harder than it looks. I am unable to get good leverage, and the proper technique of punting is too advanced. My chest and upper arms already ache from lifting the pole out of the river and submersing it back so many times.
I attempt again: I lift out the pole, and then I cast it out like a fishing rod while maintaining my widespread stance. I feel ground and give a big push, trying to get a good support and not fall into the river, which are both quite difficult, mind you. Again, our boat barely moves forward. The current takes further downstream, and we only have fifteen more minutes to return the punt about a quarter mile back upstream. Apparently, punting is not for the faint-hearted, and it definitely requires more painstaking effort than I am able to give.
Stacy has rested long enough to rescue me and take over the reigns. We carefully exchange places, to not rock the boat. She obviously regards punting as an art, as her technique is quite aesthetic. She elegantly throws the pole in the river and steers the boat with almost no effort. This is her first time ever punting, and I am amazed, as well as impressed, with her sanguine and successful skill. I ask Stacy how she is able to punt so well. She informs me that it is just technique, and that one has to be confident in themselves.
Slowly, but surely, we make our way back to the punting docks in the rear of Trinity College. Stacy is out of breath, while the older gentleman moors our punt to the dock. Finally. Terra Firma, I think to myself.
We get out of the boat, hand the man thirteen pounds, and he gives us back our forty-pound deposit. We all cheer for Stacy and head out to the Cambridge market to buy her an ice cream as a reward. It has been a good day, and at least I know that I have something to work on before I leave Cambridge — to try to master the art of punting. As a perfectionist, this challenging feat has made me want to try punting again, although the fear of falling into the river and making a mockery of myself definitely overshadows my willingness to do so. The next time that I go punting with my friends, however, I will definitely make sure to take the turn to punt downstream instead of upstream and let the current work its magic.
This is the second installment to Round My Way and my 3rd mixtape to date. Just giving a little insight to my life with mix of mid to uptempo beats. The mixtape features production from @MPFranco and features from @MikeLarryDraw and @diggz. So download it and enjoy!
