“ It is too windy to kayak on the lake on a day like today”, he warned. The ski is gray and it looks like it will rain. My sleeping bag and food is in a waterproof bag in case I tip over. I take off from old mill marina paddling hard to steer into the choppy waves. It is only my second time in a kayak but I am determined to get to the island. I flew over 3000 miles and have waited a very long time for this.
After two hours of strenuous paddling I reach my destination. The wind and choppy seas force me to a beach that just happens to be near a group of cabins. The cabins are brand new, unlike the rustic ones that I remember as a youth. The island is empty the way I planned it. I think about how, in some ways, I have a lot of trust. I just knew everything would work out-that somehow I would find shelter from the rain and get to the island safely. I feel tremendous excitement and proud of myself. I MADE IT.
I pull the kayak onto the beach and tie it to a tree. The air is cool, there are no mosquitoes and the ski is ominous. The lake looks the same as it did years ago except a lot more cottages.Ther were years of dreaming about returning to my childhood summer camp on Kawagama lake in northern Ontario. For about fifteen years I had a reoccurring dream about camp where I often awoke in tears.
I carry my waterproof bags on shore, unbuckle the clip and unroll the plastic. I pull out canned salmon, a cucumber, my sleeping bag, disposable camera, paper and pen. I forgot how clean the air smells. Each inhale leaves a residual peacefulness. Careful not to do any damage I pry open a screen window and crawl through the open window. Not only do I have shelter, but also a mattress.
It is getting dark. A deep quiet permeates the island with an occasional knock from pinecones that hit the roof. I also hear the wind through the trees and water hitting the shore. It occurs to me that exactly one year earlier I had my tumor removed. Memories fill my thoughts-of singing around bonfires, shooting at the rifle range, a counselor telling a story about the shmeckle head while we were in bed at night. I remember two male counselors practicing songs at the meal table that will be used in a camp theater production. Boys putting pins in heads of frogs. Alan Shoom, Neil Wyman and Andy Snitzer putting poop in my sheets which grossed me out when I crawled in to bed. I am filled with memories of sailing, canoeing, endless activities and, of course, horses-a passion that is part of my life today.
I walk to the area of the boy’s cabins and the old canoe marina. I checked out the few dilapidated cabins that are still standing from the old days. I tell a chip monk that I knew his great grand parents. It feels strange to return to a childhood place as an adult. Things look different when you are a kid. The field where the volleyball court is ( I don’t remember a volleyball court) used to seem huge-now it is tiny. The distance from the boy’s camp to the cafeteria has shrunk significantly. The whole island seems smaller.
I remember ten year old Dennis-physically weak, a bit shy, socially awkward and terrible at sports (except for horseback riding). Riding and being around horses were the only times I felt a sense of mastery. I don’t recall anyone making me feel bad about my shortcomings. Perhaps I would have been more popular if I was better at sports? I realize how checked out I was as a boy-not in my body, ungrounded and pure.
As I settle into my sleeping bag lightning and thunder arrives followed by a lot of rain. I feel content.
Dennis Portnoy - September 8, 2007