Written 27 October, 2020.
Why are you doing this? asked GG. His phone will be ruined by now.
But I told T I would. And, I have to admit, I still can’t turn down an adventure. I remember in a tv series about an old age home, the matron said she had some ninety year olds who can only sit and gasp, and others who still plan to trek through Africa on an elephant.
It was deceivingly easy to row to the point. I’d gone that far before, but this was my first row after winter, so I have less dexterity. The tide was still going out, so it was with me, helping me. I didn’t even get out of breath. I was pleased to be doing this for such a good neighbour. Not so long ago, I used to love being so alone I could pretend to myself that there wasn’t another human being in the world. But the virus has taught me to love being part of a community, being accepted for who I am. I wouldn’t have done this once, but now I’m pleased help.
I got to the point that juts out so far it hides our bay from passing boats, so people up river have often asked me where our bay is! My little boat is very stable, so I only tipped a little taking this: (that’s my oar)
I could just make out the muddy beach, where maybe the wallet and phone were caught, say in a rock pool, or imprisoned by a branch- I had all sorts of hopes. i’d packed in the bottom of the boat a bucket, a long-handled fishing net, a thermos of tea, my thongs, my phone in case I got into trouble, a few lollies to cheer me on- I’ve always been like a kid, bribing myself to do difficult things by lollies. (Sugar-free!). And I could see the enticing rock T had so fatefully leaned out of his kayak to take a picture of. I’d often gazed at it myself, a golden mountain peak rising out the the still blue water, topped with curls of and white snow running down its sides.
It’s really photogenic, though I haven’t done it justice.
He’d said the kayak tipped out at a nearby rock so I rowed close to the shore, got near the nearby rock, bending to the job, I began to drag at the muddy bottom with the fishing net, sweeping it in long swoops, bringing it up when there seemed to be a weight…just stones, shells, and mud mud mud. Then I rowed around to the other side of the nearby rock and swept the river floor, another spot, another spot…
And that’s where I came undone, swishing away, concentrating on sweeping the muddy bottom. Suddenly there was a roar, and I swung around to see the biggest water taxi in Brooklyn racing by to Back Beach, a beach beyond the dramatic rock where there’s a camping spot. There must’ve been stranded campers who’d had a terrible time in the rain. It’s hard to get in to those beaches even on our regular boat, and the water taxi would have a a much deeper draft. It was probably racing to beat the tide before it was fully out. The wash went on and on with me tipping from side to side, holding on tight as I swayed – but suddenly- the wash rushed me away and then I was stuck! An underwater reef! My adventure ground to a halt. I couldn’t move. Oh, I could put on my thongs and get out and push, but I’d probably slip over for I know how slippery these underwater rocks are, how mud-slicked, and the rock surface would be muddy spikes and treacherous with barnacles and broken oyster shells. I tried to think it through- pictures came to my mind of accounts of sailors stuck on reefs – either I’d have to wait a few hours for the tide to change and deepen before i could float off – or perhaps the reef wasn’t a flat table top, perhaps there’d be a dip in the rock that might give me enough water to float off. I began to push gently with the oars. I was dizzy with worry. I’d try one direction and the other direction and I realised that I must try going around in a circle so I wasn’t wasting my efforts, going over the same ground. I took notice of the tree I was facing- a beautiful white gum. When I saw that tree again, I’d have turned a circle and I’d give up. The boat moved only reluctantly, and a few times the oars bent and I worried that they’d break. Then I saw the bottom of my boat flex. I slowed down. Nothing would be achieved by piercing a hole in the boat- and I wouldn’t get home. Several times I nearly gave up, thinking I’d wait a couple of hours to float off. Then suddenly, the weather changed. After a string of grey, drizzling days, the sun came out, fiercely golden, beating down on my hatless head like a drum. i’d worn a jumper and under that a tea shirt and under that a singlet. I stripped down to the singlet. Round and round, I kept prising up the boat, and just as the white gum came into view, I felt the ease of deeper water under the prow. I pushed off with a whoosh and I shot out into in deep water. I was free.
I began to row home. GG had been right. I wasn’t skilful enough to both row and search, and the wallet and the cards and the phone were probably buried in may tidefulls of mud by now. I should’ve realised my limitations. But a little voice said:
You might’ve been lucky. It was worth a go.
But another adventure. As I rowed, the weather catapulted into yet another change. The wind swung the boat around in almost a circle. I still couldn’t see home, and round and round my little boat went. I’m too light to be good ballast. I settled down on the oars, really pushed my whole body weight into them and began to count my oar strokes – surely i’d get to the closest house in the bay by 200 strokes. By 330?- no, I’d veered straight out towards the deep channel- at any moment I’d be crossing an oyster lease and that might put a hole in the boat. 400 strokes and I was at last passing the first house. Then the second, then he third. I was so exhausted. I couldn’t haul myself out of the boat and onto our jetty.
GG came down to help pull me up. And then, my little boat, tied up to the yacht, looked like a picture of peace.
