Certain events mark unforgettable milestones in life. They act as a rite of passage, moving us into new eras of existence. The following story depicts one such event in my life. It is a fictionalized version with names and some details changed but it’s based on a real occurrence. As with every rite of passage, my thinking shifted that day, never to return to the childlike innocence of the past.
Gone Fishing
Grandfathers are difficult to please. At least this held true for mine. If my cousins and I had any chance of going fishing with them, we must be quiet…quiet as this cool Canadian morning. Only the loons called forth across the smooth surface of the lake still covered with a thin veil of mist illuminated by the full moon.
After a quick breakfast, we traipsed down to the dock hauling our gear in silence. Brent carried our bait while Margery and I each toted a tackle box. The grandfathers followed behind at a slower pace with our fishing rods. The three of us waited by the fishing boat while they made their way down the steep hill from the cabins.
Later that morning, our parents planned to go sailing with a couple from another island nearby. Their “adult only” outing left the kids under our grandparents’ supervision for the day. While the two younger girls stayed with the grandmas, we older kids were allowed for the first time to accompany the grandfathers fishing…if we behaved.
Margery and I sat together on the center seat while Brent made his way to the front. After all our gear was stowed to their satisfaction, the grandfathers took their places in the rear and Grandpa Abe started the motor. We moved out from the dock into the open water, cutting through the wisps of fog that remained.
Our little boat glided along, lulling me to sleep with its constant hum. My head jerked up as Grandpa Abe cut the motor and our craft slowed to a halt along the edge of a towering cliff jutting above the lakeshore. Brent stretched his long limbs while Margery rubbed her drowsy eyes after our long journey. We struggled to remain alert as the grandfathers showed us the proper way to put bait on our hooks and cast our lines out upon the water.
The sun rose over the horizon now, warming the chill in our arms and legs, lending us newfound energy. I stared at my bobber willing it to plunge beneath the surface with a fish hooked to my line. But hours passed without even the slightest nibble. Grandpa Will snored with eyes closed and chin on his chest, still holding fast to his pole. No fish for the fishermen today.
“Look,” Brent called out.
Across the wide expanse of the lake, white sails stood tall above the horizon. We watched dark clouds building above the vessel far away. A stout wind churned the water around it into white caps.
“Better head back to the island,” Grandpa Abe said as he moved to the back of our boat. “Storm’s brewing and it’s coming fast.
He revved the motor then turned in the direction back home. But Brent shouted out once more.
“The sailboat turned over. Did you see it?”
We scanned the horizon looking for any sign of the white sails. Gone.
Grandpa Abe slowed our boat then changed direction, heading out toward the downed sailboat.
“Looks like trouble. They may need our help,” he said.
The three of us kept watch for the overturned sailboat as we plowed into the storm. Grandpa Abe ran our motor at full throttle, but the wind blew in gusts against us hindering our progress. I questioned whether we imagined the overturning of the sailboat when Margery spotted it at last.
“Over there,” she pointed.
Sure enough, the hull of the sailboat floated upside down twenty feet ahead. My dad with my aunt and uncle clung to the side of the boat. However, my mom and another woman struggled to tread water. A man attempted to swim toward them, but his efforts proved futile. My heart pounded as I watched the waves push them further away.
“Mom, Mom,” I called, but she couldn’t hear me over the roar of the wind.
Grandpa Abe brought our boat about to come to their rescue. He idled the motor, yet we drifted past them. Instead of going forward to circle around again, for some reason, he moved the throttle in reverse. At once, he realized his error, but it was too late. My mom dove beneath the surface to avoid the rotating propeller as it backed into the other woman. I heard a panicked scream then the motor stopped.
“Oh, no,” Grandpa Abe cried out.
By this time, the man in the water reached our boat.
“Lucy are you ok?” he said.
“I don’t know, John. I’m caught and can’t move,” she answered.
Both the grandfathers leaned over the back of our boat. I turned the other way, unable to bear what I might see of the woman’s injuries.
In the chaos, I lost track of Mom. My head swiveled around until I looked down to see her reaching for the side of our boat. She struggled to keep her head above the waves. I grasped her hand to keep her from slipping away again.
“Hold on, Mom. I won’t let you go,” I said as tears mixed with the spitting rain that stung my cheeks.
Grandpa Will rummaged through the contents of his tackle box then pulled out a knife.
“Here, use this to cut her free,” he said, handing it to John.
With great care, he worked to release her thick Canadian sweater wound around the propeller. When freed at last, her sweater lay in pieces, but Lucy bore no wounds, only bruises.
Together we pulled her and Mom into our boat then started our journey back to the island. Another boat returned for the others, bringing everyone to safety.
That evening, the three of us older kids warmed ourselves by the fireplace, trying to make sense of the miracle we witnessed that day. The grandfathers walked up behind us, resting their hands on our shoulders.
“You were all very brave out there in the storm today,” said Grandpa Will.
“Yes, we’re both proud of you,” Grandpa Abe added. “We just wanted to let you know…you’re welcome to go fishing with us anytime.”
