Captain, My Captain

The morning of my father’s 88th birthday eased itself over the mountainside and nestled in the bosom of the Lake like a grateful lover. It was cooler than it had been all week, but no less bright for that, and the sky was dashed with clouds, just enough for the winds aloft to smear shapes—“There’s an eagle!” my Dad cried—that invited our imaginations and gave a shifting canopy to the calmed water. The Lake borrowed some blue from the sky, making the horizon pale in donation, but the trees’ green kept them each in their own place, a blanket of discretion between intimate friends.

My father’s fears were relieved. He had worried that he’d “blown his chance” at a beautiful time on the Lake by his inadvertent plunge two days before. But as we stood lakeside again, this time more patient with the process of boat delivery, he could see the water was just as calm, and the sun was burning off what morning mist remained. It was better in fact, for the air being cooler. And we were less rushed—so we had cooler heads as well!

The high school student who went over the checklist of operational “do’s and don’t’s” turned out to be a jazz trombonist—just like my Dad and I! It was as if more than one sort of legacy of the Lake was being handed down.

Once we were checked out, we headed out, Dad at the wheel, I in the bow, for “ballast,” er, balance! Dad was, well, “heady” about his being at last on the Lake. We shot out the gate, and were movin’! We headed counterclockwise, which was right, or starboard as the case might be. In either case, we were at it! We headed towards where we were staying, then up along the coast until we got to the dam, then back to open water—a signal to Dad to open it up. We got to be movin’! It was fun!
I sat in the front, snapping pictures. Dad was in his element, on the Lake, livin’ and re-livin’. He was often so deep in memory that he didn’t respond to my requests to slow down or stop so I could take a clearer picture. We went on, past White Beauty, around the back of The Island, around The Other Island, across the other side of the Lake from which we owned, down into where the Lake narrowed again, and back in towards The Bridge. End to end, Dam to Bridge. Not quite record time, but, quickly enough.

Then back out again. This time, we were to pass in front of the property he and Mom once owned. I asked him to go slow, so we could see where it was. We still missed it! We took pix at the neighbor’s house, distracted by a huge blue heron that had landed on a float nearby. Eventually, we got it right. We headed out.

There was where we used to put the boat in and take it out. There was where we first spent Summers at the Lake. Here was the narrow straight were we used to swim from the beach to the Island—and in the good old days, ski from the beach, around the Island, and back to the beach, letting go into stand up landings... Those were the good old days, before increased boat traffic and regulations!

As we crossed over into the now extinct White Beauty View area where the Lake widens and is chronically rough (the Lake’s version of Tierra del Fuego), Dad let me take the wheel. This turned out to be a bold move on his part: he had to sit in the bow across the roughest water, into increased boat traffic. This was going to be a bumpy, kidney-bustin’ ride for him no matter how much I moderated our speed. Weaving around skiers and fishers we made it back to base—too early! I took us out across the Lake and around the Lake’s largest island, before I headed us back.
All I wanted to do was extend Dad’s ride. He was in near-ecstasy. He kept praising God, saying how wonderful the day was, and marveling at the weather. It truly was a joy to behold—for both of us.

Once we got back on shore, and on with the day, Dad kept talking about it. Evaporated in the heat of the experience was his fear that he had “spoiled” things earlier. Instead he was flush with the realization that all had gone well, splendidly even, and most likely in a manner fitting to the best that could be. All was right with the world, for my Dad.

For me, it was a once in a lifetime experience. I kept thinking: I am glad that I lived this long, to have this kind of time with my Dad. I kept wondering: Will any of my children think about what might please me this way should I get to be 88? I kept believing: I’m glad that I had the courage of my whimsy and arranged for the possibility of this day.

The very best thing was to see my Dad behind the wheel, making his own “road,” leaving his own wake. More than driving a car, driving a boat brings out my Dad’s true nature.