Andreo's Race by Pam Withers

frantically trying to keep up so they can ride Mother and Dad’s wake.
    â€œLong enough to get the rest you needed,” Mother says. “Want to give Dad a break now?”
    â€œI don’t need a break,” Dad protests, but since no one is suggesting that Mother does—she’s clearly happy in her favorite command post—Dad and I wriggle about tillwe’ve completed the swap. I’ve stroked less than five minutes when he starts snoring.
    â€œYou actually put David and Raul in the same canoe?” I tease Mother.
    â€œThey’re way too busy trying to match our pace to argue,” she replies lightly. “Three, two, one, swap sides.”
    Our paddles do the switch without losing a single stroke. We’ve been doing this together for as long as I can remember, and little is more peaceful, efficient and satisfying in life than paddling a canoe through water with my powerful mother.
    â€œLand ahoy!” comes a shout from Raul.
    We squint ahead and, sure enough, the mid-lake islet we’ve been waiting for is in sight.
    â€œCheckpoint No. 5,” David says in a tired but pleased voice. “We get a quick rest here, right? I so need a nap.”
    â€œMe too,” says Raul, making me feel guilty that I’ve had one.
    â€œSure, one hour,” Mother says in a low voice with a finger to her lips, pointing to Dad.
    Springing out of the bow, I tie the canoe to shore, then beeline for the food table as Mother manages to step gingerly over Dad without waking him. Near the checkpoint, a row of snoozing bodies fills a tarp on the ground. I glance around and see other racers napping in their tied-up canoes. One team has pulled their canoe to shore and overturned it as a shelter for whoever is sleeping beneath it, his mud-caked shoes sticking out at an angle.
    â€œMaria!” I hear David’s and Raul’s surprised voices greet our friend in unison.
    â€œ
Uh-oh
,” I joke to Mother, who pretends she hasn’t heard as she gets our team passport stamped.
    Mother ends up chatting with some female competitors in the food line as David, Raul, Maria and I pile our plates with tostadas, corn cobs, potatoes, apples and a tasty local corn drink we’re told is called
wilkaparu
. We plunk down on the ground for a picnic under the watchful eyes of Maria’s dad and uncles. David and Raul vie for who can sit closest to Maria.
    â€œThought you guys were way ahead of us!” she exclaims. “How’d you get behind us?”
    Raul explains how we got lost on the mountain, making sure she knows David was responsible.
    â€œHardly lost any time!” David counters, offering Maria his apple, which she refuses politely. “And look how we all but hydroplaned down the lake to catch you here. So let’s paddle the rest of the way together, sound good?”
    â€œ
Ha
,” she laughs lightly, “as if we could keep up with you.”
    â€œSo, what’s after the lake?” Raul asks her, even though he knows already.
    â€œA short biking bit through some beautiful valleys, then some trekking through a gnarly set of canyons before we get to Torotoro. Torotoro, by the way, is Quechuan Indian for ‘land of mud,’ because in ancient times, it wassupposedly a big lagoon. Anyway, that’s where the caving part of this race is. I can hardly wait!”
    â€œWhere did you learn caving, Maria?” Raul asks, leaning in toward her. “In Cochabamba?”
    â€œNo way. We only moved to Cochabamba last year. I grew up in Torotoro. It has dozens of caves—more being discovered every day. Locals keep lots of them secret from visitors.”
    â€œSecret caves! Awesome,” says Raul. “Maybe we could explore them on our day off.”
    She giggles, shoots a wary glance toward her uncles and then looks at Raul with sparkling eyes. “Why not?”
    â€œWhy not? Because it’s our only rest day!” David snaps.