Diamonds and Loons

We got up this morning, the best way possible – no alarm clock, but still early enough to “eat up, suit up, and hit the water,” as Chica put it. My aspirations for the day were all over the place: kayak across the bay and back, take Chica tubing, and then the three of us, Chica, Hubsy and I would climb Mt. Major – all before lunch. Two out of three Hansons told me I was crazy. As the third Hanson, and one with a propensity for talking to herself, I was in denial about the gross mismatch between ambitions and abilities. That, and I don't remember to respect the time-space continuum when I'm on vacation.

Just to set up: most of the athletic ability and coordination in our family is intractably invested in Chica. From golf, to tennis, to soft ball, to – well, think of a game where you swing a stick at something round, and she’s a natural at it. She did not inherit this agility from me. She did, however, hone it at a summer camp I helped pay for. As a generous daughter, she’ll be a star if she ever decides to go into the family business, and she was quite game to help me achieve my kayaking goal.

I have kayaked before, but only as far as a stick a little ways out from the family dock. The town docks seemed like a good enough destination, but Chica suggested “Indian Island” which would be safer and more interesting, in terms of immediate scenery. So, right after breakfast, we were on the dock in our suits, getting the kayaks into position. Just getting in without tipping over and getting mud pie hair is a win for me. Quick victory! Yay!

Apparently the Camp kayaking teachers recommend that as you stroke your paddle through the water, you swivel your hips. “Imagine that your body is spring loaded, Mom.” I tried hard to swivel, I really did, but my right hip immediately brought this important fact to my attention: I need more spring and less load. Did I mention that Chica did not inherit her athletic skills from me?

“Mom, aim! Aim!” I must have been too focused on the angle of the paddle, rather than the direction of the vessel, because my kayak stubbornly pointed about 15 degrees to the right of where I wanted it. “Mom, look at the target, not at the paddle. You don’t stare at the steering wheel when you drive, right?”

Turns out, Chica was right about all of it. As soon as the hips and paddle coordinated, I felt the kayak propel twice as far. Pretty soon, the stick was way behind us, and I no longer considered it an accomplishment to get only that far. Eventually, she asked me where I had my feet (on the bottom of the kayak, where else would they be?). Oh, those things by my shins are foot rests? And having my feet on them will further increase my propulsion? Got it, Chica. And thanks.

I continue to struggle with the aim, though, but mostly because this lake, on a perfectly clear August morning – well, I run out of words quickly, but I am in heaven here. There is just no bad place to look. The sunshine hits the water in a scatter of diamonds. In the distance, the mountains layer, sculpted by cloud shadows.

And then, just bobbing on the barely discernible ripples, a loon.

“Oh, Mom, look! A loon!” Chica whispered. It rested fairly close to us, close enough to see the red of its eyes and each distinctive white speckle on black feathers. We paused and floated there, very quietly, just watching it. What is it about a solitary loon that projects an air of nobility, and evokes protectiveness? It was simply understood between Chica and me: DO NOT DISTURB! Look, certainly. Marvel if you’re moved to, but don’t get any closer. Let it be. And he dove, and we paddled on. After a few minutes, he appeared again. Again, we paused just to enjoy him, and this time, he stretched his wings and aimed his pointy beak high over the water, then back down, and another dive.

Yes, this lake takes my words away. So on we paddled, chatted, rested, listened to the surface water brush along the hull.

I don’t know if “Indian Island” is the official name, or if it’s just what the kids call it, but, the only human form inhabiting the place is a slightly larger than life-size statue of a Native American man. At night, it’s lit from below, and we’ve grown accustomed to looking for him whenever we arrive into town in the wee hours. He greets, intimidates and inspires.

Just as we decided to start back for home, there was our loon again, just for a few seconds this time before diving and resurfacing. I don’t know if he was comfortable enough around a pair of fresh water mermaids, or just inviting us to get on with it and leave, but we’ll take his time and attention as a compliment.

The wind behind us on the trip back hurried us along, even though there was certainly no hurry. The only eye-rolling moment was when Chica had to steer out of the way of a water skier whose boat captain got too close to two kayaks. He didn’t even look. Ah well.

We put off climbing and tubing for another day – no sense over-crowding a morning like that, even if I had had the energy. Thank you, Chica; I couldn’t have done it without you.