Muskoka

We didn’t venture out on vacations often. My father spent much of his time on the road, such is the life of a salesman, so he wasn’t thrilled about the prospect of spending more time on a highway when he was on vacation. We went on a few, though. I recall Sudbury. I recall Niagara Falls and Clifton Street. And I recall visiting my mother’s cousin in Muskoka.

I was old enough to forge out on a canoe alone with Joe, son of Doreen, a cousin on my mother’s side, which would mean that I was probably 12 or 14, or around there. Joe and I stuck out to explore the lake. It was a sweltering day, the sky was blue, the air calm. Joe knew the lake by heart, whereas I’d never seen it before. I’d also hardly spent any time paddling a canoe. It had been years since we’d moved to Timmins and sold the Rancourt cottage, years since my father had taken up travelling for a living, so travelling while on holiday was not a priority to him. We had that summer, spending a short while at Pat and Doreen’s cottage on a Muskoka peninsula. I was bored. I didn’t really know Joe that well, and he seemed a lot older than me at the time. Our parents were sitting about chatting. That’s when Joe suggested the canoe. I was game, but a little nervous. I told him I had little experience in one, but he set me at ease, saying that he’d do all the steering, and that we’d be fine, so long as I didn’t flip us mid-lake. He laughed. I tried to. We stayed close to shore.
We were some ways out, about a half-hour or so, likely more, when the wind picked up some. Joe looked to the sky. Shrugged. We kept on. But, in no time at all, clouds resolved in an empty sky, grew dark, and piled high, one on top of another, as high as I could see. Joe stopped, surveyed the sky again, and thought it best that we head back. The wind began to whip us. We paddled hard. Rain began to fall, then pummel us. The boat rocked and pitched and I began to get very worried, and tired. My scrawny adolescent arms were spent, but fear kept me keeping on. Owing to Joe’s silence and his laboured breathing behind me, he too was worried. He too was tired.
That was when I saw a motor boat racing towards us. Pat was at the wheel, my father with him. I felt a wave of salvation. They slowed, motored past and swung around alongside. Joe climbed aboard while my father reeled me in. Pat ordered Joe to tie a line to the canoe. And we were off, the storm in our faces, the cottage still some way away despite our speed. The boat bucked and leaped through the chop, landing hard, jarring my jaw and impressing me to hang on with all my worth to my seat. I watched the canoe weave and jump on its line, as though trying to throw its hook. Lightning cut the sky, and I thought on how I’d always been told that one should never be on the water during a thunderstorm. I wondered what would happen if the boat was hit, what would happen if the lightning struck the lake.
Safe back at the cottage, dried off and changed and sipping instant hot chocolate, I watched it lash at the lake. I’ve always loved storms. I’d never once seen a storm rush in that quickly before.