Canada Series: The Send Off

“Far in the grim Northwest beyond the lines
that turn into rivers eastward to the sea,
Set with a thousand islands, crowded with pines,
Lies deep water, wild Temagami…” — Archibald Lampman

Canada’s wilderness would become a new playground for us, but right now, Eva and I hopped on a bus and listened to the kids in the back row sing Sweet Emotion. They wore light blue Levi’s and everyone had long hair.

As we traveled deeper into Canada, the authority of home stretched and broke. At the gas station, Eva and I ate Reeses for lunch. When we reached water, the duffels were on our backs and we climbed onto a flotilla of speed boats. I could only stare.

Nature here was not the same nature at home. Lake Temagami did not suggest a bottom and it required the same respect I gave the ocean. Loons floated on its depth with an unguarded air of confidence and their telltale call made me burst out laughing. Pines surrounded us on both sides and fought against each other for space, leaning over the lake. As we stepped onto the dock at the base camp, ten hours later from LaGuardia, I carried my own duffle and walked passed rows of red dented canoes, knowing we were soon leaving. The base camp would not be home. The lake was.

When all the boats were emptied there was an instant, live-wire energy at the base camp that I badly wanted to be part of. Older kids strode around wearing ratty T-shirts with cool sayings, greeting each other, their wavy hair uncombed. Some carried acoustic guitars by the neck. They went barefoot and knew how to start a fire. I showed up with carefully combed wings and for all my tomboy ways, a can of Aqua Net, so this was all new to me. I watched these kids, admiring their hippie bravura. But when my cousin and I had to pitch our first tent in the freezing rain, the romance wore fast.

Our first tough endeavor was the swim test. If you didn’t pass the swim test, you didn’t go camping. The flanneled camp director did have a few rules and that was one. So Eva and I put on our suits the next morning and stood shivering by the lake’s soggy, pine-needled edge. There was a gray storm chewing at horizon level. We got in silver rowboats that had water inside, making me colder, and they dropped us off at the wooden platform out in the black lake and were told to swim back.

We were the last ones to start the test. Eva and I stood and watched as the other kids in our group crossed the lake with swim team crawl strokes. Until just that moment, I didn’t realize I was such a terrible swimmer. I was always an ocean girl, and you don’t really swim in the ocean, do you? You hop, you laugh, you play a nice game called Martha Washington with your sisters that makes your hair look like a giant curl around your face. You wear seaweed. But these kids came from somewhere serious that had chlorine. The two counselors nudged my cousin and me, so we took turns climbing down the platform ladder.

When my foot reached for another rung and found only lake, I became a whoosh of fear, wondering what swam beneath. At Rock Hill Girl Scout Camp the counselors told Eva and me about fresh water sharks and that memory came back in detail. I did a frantic crawl stroke that got me ten feet until I switched gears for the doggie paddle. I forget who came in last. I think it was me. The counselors were gone when we emerged from the lake.

With no golden plastic trophies, Eva and I walked back to base camp shaking and teeth chattering with arms crossed, too frozen to talk. This was when we pitched a tent for the first time. Since it was now pouring rain, and the chlorine kids were warm and dry in their tents, Eva and I had no time to pretend it was hard. We were told to pitch a tent so we stuck poles in poles, learning as we went. Our counselor saw us struggling and gave us a hand. Afterward, Eva and I hid inside the tent as the rain beat on the top, shivering together as we yanked off our suits and put on dry clothes, sweaters. Shivering is actually exhausting. I couldn’t believe how far I was from home. This was camping? With wings deflated, staying at the base camp was looking more inviting.

But the next morning we were off. After a warm breakfast of hot cereal, Eva and I got in our dented red canoe with our blue duffle bags between us and the rolled-up tent that we couldn’t quite get back in the bag. The sun was awake and the loons called us out. The flanneled camp director stood over us on the dock and gave our canoe a hard push.

book cover 3

Next Up: Portage, on Aug. 21

Big, Blue Duffel: Intro to the Canada Series

(circa 1980)

An original life is unexplored territory.
You don’t get there by taking a taxi—
You get there by carrying a canoe
. –Alan Alda

The Canada series starts in LaGuardia airport in New York, with my mother running after the camp director, yelling at his flanneled back, “Make sure my daughter takes her medicine!”

Did he nod? He had a plane to catch.

Those were different days, when kids ran out the front door saying, “Bye!” Or if they explained their whereabouts at all, just hopped on a bike and pedaled away.

Now my cousin and I hopped on a plane with our blue, camp-sanctioned duffel bags and headed to the great outdoors. Eva’s duffel bag was stretched tight at the zipper, full of Noxema, a big hand mirror, Sassoon jeans, little luxuries and functionalities but no snacks. The snacks would have come in handy, cousin. Me, I packed Jordache jeans, a brush, socks and underwear, a new bottle of pink Tickle deoderant that would barely break its seal, a notebook and pen.

I was so excited.

We were camping, heading into the woods. Not backdoor woods, but Canadian woods full of bears and blueberries and real tents and cooking over a fire and if the wood was wet, oh well! Eat crackers! The Canada I knew from the globe in the corner of the library at school would soon display an uncharted view of nature, including the decadence of uncountable shooting stars that would draw across the night sky above our sleeping bags. And it would make us strong. I didn’t know that then, of course, being 13 and half-wondering if I would ever be able to plug in my curling iron.

We would be gone for the month of July. It was my uncle’s idea. Eva would be in the front of our canoe, I would be in the back. Together, with our group of ten 13-year-olds and two counselors whom we considered ancient but were a mere 16 and 17, we paddled over 300 miles around Ontario’s lake regions, portaged over 20 miles, taking turns carrying the canoes themselves and the dreaded sack of cans that gave us bruise stripes on both shoulders. We were tough by the end, Jack London’s The Call of the Wild: Eva and I stole food, swam naked, swung a few punches, climbed a firetower so tall it swayed in the wind, ate chicken from a can and sucked on the bones, came nose to nose with a mother moose, jumped off a cliff, saw my first naked penis (several actually), slept under stars so vast that God was watching us sleep, saw the end of a giant rainbow, slid down mossy rocks on our bare feet laughing into the black lake. All without a cell phone. Or a registered RN on duty. Or special water bottles (we leaned over the canoes to drink from the lakes with our hands). Or supervision, for that matter. This was camp!

We were children set loose in the Canadian wilderness, trusted to look after ourselves. Just to be super clear, there were no music lessons with a guitar somewhere along the way, no water shoes, no arts and crafts projects, no adult. I don’t remember seeing a first-aid kit, but I can’t say I looked for it either, even when I twisted my ankle. I think it was Eva who brought along the Bandaids and nursed me back to health. I think I shampooed once. I say all this to set the stage. We did have Coppertone SPF 4 until it ran out, and a campfire every morning and night because we needed it to cook, to eat.

I sound like the old man who walked a mile to the one-room schoolhouse in the snow. I get you, old man! Since life now is so different, life then seems so unique! And since this eye-rolling Girl Scout begrudgingly sewed sit-upons out of used tablecloths while the boy scouts went camping, the heavy wish in my heart was now here before me, laid out like a prize, which taught me this: I should believe that wishes, even unspoken ones, come true. What a beautiful thing to come across at 13. How I would depend on this later.
Girl canoeing
Next up: Canada Series, The Send Off

Swim Lesson

I jumped out of the car and ran across the driveway, my sandaled feet slipping over the loose gravel.

My Great Aunt Dotsie was taking down her stiff towels from the line. My Uncle Tommy was already counting for hamburgers and hotdogs, pretending not to see my younger sisters. The tiny yard smelled of charcoal and lighter fluid. The picnic table was set with a yellow tablecloth and a stack of paper plates.

“Aunt Dotsie!” I said.

“Carry these in, honey,” she said, handing me the crunchy towels. They smelled of sun and bleach.

Over the tomato plants, we heard Mrs. Halpern’s voice yell to her husband. Her front door slammed.

My Aunt Dotsie rolled her eyes. “Here she comes,” she said. “Run.”

I ran inside with the towels and put them on the couch. When I sat in my Uncle Tommy’s green TV chair, I saw my older cousin and her friends in the front yard, where we weren’t allowed to go. Beyond the line of pines, a car whizzed by with a trail of guitar, heading to the Tarrytown Lakes.

I went out the front door and stood with my cousin and the older girls. One older girl was leaning on a pine tree, looking at me and my rainbow bathing suit.

“Do you know how to swim?” she asked me.

“Sort of,” I said. “Yes.”

“Sort of!”

We all turned toward the voice.

It was Mrs. Halpern with a hotdog in her hand, wearing a visor. She had the head of a tan turtle.

“You don’t know how to swim?” she asked me.

My Aunt Dotsie came up behind her, holding a wiggly pink mold.

“Who wants mold?” she asked us, motioning to me with her head.

“Me!” we all said, and followed her into the front yard, where my Uncle Tommy was handing out hotdogs to my sisters.

I grabbed a paper plate and spooned my Aunt Dotsie’s macaroni salad and pink mold onto my plate.

“Amy doesn’t know how to swim?”

I looked up.

Mrs. Halpern was talking to my mother. They started to discuss something. I watched them for a second but then I ate the macaroni salad. It had little pieces of green pepper. I usually hated green pepper, but not in this cold macaroni salad I didn’t!

My mother came over.

“Amy, why don’t you go to the pool with Mrs. Halpern?” said my mother. “She’s a swimming teacher.”

I looked at Mrs. Halpern. “C’mon, get in my car,” she said. “You have your bathing suit on.”

She started walking toward her house.

I looked at my mother. She nodded. “Grab a towel off the couch and go with Mrs. Halpern,” she said.

Two minutes later, we were in Mrs. Halpern’s loud VW Beetle with hot seats, headed to a pool. I was sort of excited, especially when I saw the pool. It was enormous. It smelled my favorite smell, chlorine, and it was bigger than the Ardsley Middle School pool.

“Go down to the deep end,” said Mrs. Halpern.

I did. I took off my shorts and left them on the floor and saw how deep the pool was. It said “21 Feet” in red squares. I stood in front of the 21 Feet. My toes were touching the red squares, and wondered if the—

Hands were on my back and then I was in the chlorine air. I fell into the deep cave of the 21 Feet.

Under water my arms flailed. I came up breathing pool, frightened.

I turned myself around and looked up at her. I was treading water. She was standing with her arms on her hips. My hair was draped across my face like a curtain.

“See?” said Mrs. Halpern. “Now you know how to swim.”

I don’t remember much more of the lesson. We did do a crawl stroke at the other end of the pool and she put her hands on my head, twisting my head back and forth so I could learn how to breathe properly.

Later, in my Aunt Dotsie’s kitchen, I told everyone what happened. My Aunt Dotsie slapped her hand down on the counter.

“What?!” she said. “She walks around town sayin’ she’s this great swim teacher? She doesn’t have a bird-brain in her head!”

My mother was examining me with a look of distress and draped a crunchy towel around my shoulders.

My sister, Laurette, was tapping my Aunt Dotsie. “Aunt Dotsie, Aunt Dotsie, can I cut your hair on the couch?” she asked.

Aunt Dotsie was still talking about Mrs. Halpern’s bird brain but she stopped, and looked down at my sister. “Sure honey, go get the scissors,” she said. My sister ran for the scissors.

The kitchen cleared.

My Great Aunt Mary stood next to the green fridge. She was holding a Tom Collins, looking at me. She raised her chin in the air, and waited.

I raised mine.

“I see you survived,” she said.

pool water

Next up: ASK, on July 17. Please stop back and read! It makes my day!! 🙂