We’re out on the open stretch
of the vast, deep lake
in West Quebec,
in the aluminum canoe,
my friends up front
and back, paddling,
me in the middle,
gazing at a log cabin
on the point, as we
drift past in silence.

The cottages, some with guest sleeping cabins,
stand distantly-spaced
not visible from one to the other
on land, but proudly displayed
and vivid, from the water.

Closer to the shoreline
we passed a cedar A-frame,
and round the bay,
a pale yellow chalet.

And now my heart stands still
taking in the dark brown log cabin
across from us
as the changeling leaves of early fall
frame it amidst their waves to us.

For I’m not in this boat any longer,
with writer friends
with whom I’ve laughed, conversed and
pointed out the sights,
for even as this sun break after cloud
blesses the windows of
the modest cottage,
I’m back in our brown fiberglass
rented motorboat my father’s running,
brother and I watching
for shoals, deadheads
and favourite fishing corners,
the lines trolling from our fishing rods,
and discovering again from the various vantage
angles, each cottage on the shores of
Sand Bay, Quebec
some thirty and forty years ago,
but forever marked in memory.

I'm absorbed in the old delight
of being surprised by those habitats
seeming to approach us,
not the other way around,
entering the panorama
from around the weed bed,
along the north shore by the table rock,
or far down around the bay and on that open water
of the Ottawa, across the wide expanse to
Ontario.

I’m cherishing again, as the child I was,
those treasured shorelines
with the other people’s summer homes
more modest in those days, but bright and
rich with character,
some with national flags flying
on high masts from stone piers.

If we were quiet enough
in a stillness like this one, today,
we’d catch conversations carried to us
over the blue waves and imagine those
were our own cottages, or people,
though our rental one up the road from
our beach, set back in the delicious pines
was an annual gem, to us.

We, my sister and two brothers,
came to know the familiar landmarks,
motor sounds for each stretch of
of Dad's varied maneuvers for negotiating
the river, and the precise sections
where he'd lift the motor to avoid trouble,
or anchor to stillfish a while.

My friends break the silence now,
warning one another of choppiness and rocks,
and paddle harder, these two athletic women,
as I sit not too guiltily on my hard floor seat,
and struggle to fathom
that Dad and my brothers
can’t be venturing out like this
with me anymore. At least, for Dad,
it will not happen again, unless on much higher-
flowing waterways, only destiny
will welcome us to in our time,
but for my brothers, one day, with better health,
the chances should come again.

Yet the similarities of scenes
and moment, sounds and scents
belie the reality of all this change.

They, who each in turn, navigated for me
since I was small, taught me
the river, the fishing, and saved me
from close drowning mishaps,
are no longer able.
Dad’s deceased since decades ago,
both brothers working on
health recovery,
confined by pain and restricted
to minimal movement.

While I admire the woodland setting
the rise and fall of shore view
and water fowl, I hear the echo of earlier voices
ushering me along.
The muscles of my hostess friends
labour generously
but these paddlers
are part of another world
from me right now.
They cannot know
how far back
they are gently
taking me adrift.

09/11/2006

Author's Note: draft

Posted on 09/11/2006
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