JULY 2, 2020 – (Cont.) They pulled up their canoe onto the small landing of the little island and unloaded their gear. While the kids pitched skippers across the smooth waters around the island, Grandpa and Uncle Sugar pulled the big umbrella tent out of its oilskin bag. They soon discovered, however, that the island was too rocky for stakes; too small for a large tent.
Grandpa gave the command: transfer to the campsite ashore some 200 feet away. Because they’d unpacked their gear, rather than re-packing it compactly, Grandpa decided it would be easier to take two loads to the mainland. On the first trip, they transported tent, ropes, stakes, and oilskin bag.
While Grandpa and Uncle Sugar were pitching the tent, the boys asked if they could take the canoe out. Grandpa, a veteran canoeist, assented but with the stipulation that they remain in sight, close to shore.
Once the laborious tent project was complete, the men looked up and saw . . . no sign of the boys.
Grandpa shouted their names. No answer. Uncle Sugar bellowed their names. Still no answer. Just stillness. At that moment when a man’s heart climbs into his throat and the worst horrors enter his imagination, the canoe—and boys—emerged from behind the other island; the larger but less hospitable rocky outpost 200 feet or so from both the smaller island and the shore camp.
Grandpa’s overwhelming relief found disguise in anger. What started as a reprimand gave way to a tirade. It continued after the boys landed the canoe and as Grandpa shoved right off again to retrieve the rest of the gear that had been left on the little island.
“Not until you’re old enough to handle a canoe, do you have any business venturing way out like you did!” He repeated himself for the second or third time as he angrily maneuvered the canoe from shore. “You’ve got to have proper training and know the right moves.” According to Dad, Grandpa had a mean J-stroke, and in that instant, it was particularly mean; so mean, it capsized the canoe.
“Harry and I laughed so hard,” said Dad, “we were in tears.” A small spray of sparks shot up as he stirred the outer embers of our campfire. “And out of the corner of my eye, I could see that Uncle Sugar was doing all he could not to laugh too. In that effort he told us, ‘Don’t laugh!’ . . . then burst out laughing himself. Your grandpa was not a happy camper.”
I can’t remember seeing Dad more content than he was that evening, seated by a campfire in the BWCA, telling a funny story about Grandpa capsizing in a canoe not far from where our own canoe lay (safely) silhouetted against the moonlight.
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© 2020 by Eric Nilsson
