Catch Some Air

“Catch Some Air”

She glides behind me and I twist my body–with some arthritic squeaks–to watch. Our granddaughter Mairead is on the wakeboard and, though ordinarily she’s a solemn child, I can see a bit of smile even from the boat. Four years ago at seven, she had her first wakeboard experience, managing to “get up” as they say, and glide about fifty feet before losing her balance. At the next lake holiday, she mastered the basics and could stay up for long periods, crossing the boat’s wake from side to side as her uncle piloted moves to give her experience. This year, after a couple of practice runs, she is moving with confidence, strength and joy. She crosses the wakes with ease, going farther out to the side of the boat each time. Then she does it and Gracie, more advanced in skills and generous in support, cheers. “That’s it, Mairead. Catch some air.”

Catch some air. It’s the water sports argot for the move which lifts the skier or wakeboarder above the water to ride, for just a moment, on the air currents above. It’s the mark of proficiency and now, along with her two older cousins, she will lengthen her air ride, by milliseconds, each time.

We have rented a house on the shore of Lake Almanor and the family, all eleven of us, have gathered for our every-other-summer holiday. The delights of the place are many. For one thing, it has beds and bedrooms enough to allow all of us to have private places of retreat. We enjoy each other immensely, but we all need some peace and quiet to keep going, to keep up the pace set by five energetic grandchildren, and we value our various hidey-holes. Grace makes good use of hers. She immerses herself in books and ruminations. Poised to start high school soon after our lake days, she is both anxious and eager and quiet space and time are essential.

The house offers a plethora of pleasurable activities. There is a jacuzzi where some enjoy splashing around in water a little bit warmer than the lake. There is a ping-pong table and a boche ball court where three generations of Evans men challenge each other’s throwing skills. There are board games galore in one of the cupboards and the families bring their own as well. They also bring various craft kits. For Bridget, second up from the bottom, crafts are one of her favorite activities. I have brought along some home-made booklets with writing prompts. They see some use, but not much, although on one hot afternoon, Bridget and I sit in companionable silence, writing side by side.

The house has an outdoor fire pit and a fire with s’mores and songs is mandatory on at least one night. Tess, the oldest grandchild and on her way to college, is a talented singer and guitarist. With a quiet, unassuming grace, she entertains us and, when her last solo is a protest song, we older folk beg for some of the protest songs of our earlier generations. Tess obliges. Singing leads directly to conversation. Charlottesville has just occurred and difficult choices weigh in upon us, like the darkness that waits just outside the circle of our fire.

There are leisurely dinners shared on the deck, while the sun slowly goes away and lights come on around us. On one such evening we celebrate with a poetry party. I had asked that each of us bring along a poem—a favorite or a new creation of our own—and after a special dinner with a very special cake ( made of three different flavors, shaped and frosted to look like special poetry books), we take turns reading or declaiming our choices. Our son, Michael, reads “Casey at the Bat” while Liam mimes appropriate actions. I had anticipated some reluctance or shyness, but there is none. Only joy in the poems. I suspect that a poetry party will become another lake tradition. Or at least I hope so.

The long, sunny days are filled with action. The pleasures of the water have been enhanced by a new floating trampoline. Bouncing and falling have been added to swimming and diving. Our daughter-in-law, Moe, makes good use of the kayaks–both one-and two-person versions–and can be seen on the water early in the morning sharing her pleasure with son or daughter, husband or father-in-law. Bill and I enjoy long walks through woods of cedar and pine and the more energetic enjoy bike rides and runs. We see deer in our various jaunts–young ones alone. Yearlings probably.

But it’s the boat that garners the most attention. Almost as soon as everybody surfaces in the morning, someone wonders, “When is Uncle Bill going to take the boat out?” Our son-in-law is generous in bearing the effort and expense of bringing the boat to the lake and expert in teaching the grandchildren different water and boat skills. He also insists on the wearing of life-jackets, an occasional source of controversy. In between wakeboard sessions, he pulls the younger two on a float that bounces and tilts as he drives straight, then from side to side, occasionally allowing the float, too, to catch some air. The riders wear life-jackets, they hold on tight and they know the hand signals for giving directions to the driver. They rarely tap their heads to signal “stop,” but repeatedly give the signs for “more” and “faster.” After a few moments, I cannot watch. They look so small back there, even if they are screaming with delight. Bill also allows Bridget and Liam to pilot the boat. By the time the vacation is over, Liam, aged seven, is quite a skilled pilot, working the throttle and steering wheel at his uncle’s quiet directions.

This boat, center of so much attention and delight, has one unusual quality. At the end of each day’s activities, the boat finds itself in need of ice cream. I’m sure it also requires gas and our son-in-law provides it on his own time. But it also needs ice cream, or so he says. The final ride, therefore, takes us to the dockside convenience store, where the boat, and we passengers, indulge.

“Catch some air.” In retrospect, I realize that, although I stay always in the boat and, this year, did not even take a swim, I too have caught some air. I have breathed deeply of the clean mountain air at Almanor. Laughter fills me up. Quiet, one-on-one conversations with each member of my family fill me with that even more critical “oxygen” of devotion and information. “What size are you now?” “What are you reading?” “What are you most looking forward to this year?” What are you most anxious about?” “How’s work really going?” Our daughter, Marianne, and I share some intimate stories of our recent life. The air at the lake elevation is supposedly somewhat thin. I find that it has everything I need.