If You Don't Know A Knot, Tie A lot!

Friggin’ boat!

Who tied it up?!

I am almoooooost there……

Dang it!

Reaching with my right hand, mid-Crawl stroke, I am desperately swimming to catch our “Beach Kids’” styrofoam sailboat that a rare mid-summer howling northwest wind has ripped off its piling in Fisherman’s Cove and is being blown straight out to sea.

Somebody's dad’s friend gifted the bunch of us summer kids the hull of this former sailboat and we have spent all summer practically living on it out in front of my house. It can hold at least six fifteen and sixteen year olds at a time. You can stand up on it and dive off and, importantly — should extra chores be required of me in the late afternoon — it is handy to be out to sea and unavailable. In short, it is IMPERATIVE that I retrieve it. Just minutes before this moment:

The boat!

Gem hops up on the seawall and points out to sea at Fisherman’s Cove.

Noooooooo!!!!!

Seeing our summer plaything being blown offshore, I jump off the huge granite rocks below the seawall into the brisk 54 degree August seawater and begin a mad swim after it.

Ugh…..ALMOST!

Another wild gust blows it just out of reach again. I swim frantically on. I glance back for a second, Gem and Cindy trailing behind me. Gulping seawater, I think:

What the fuck, no!! Do not follow me!!! You suck at swimming! You are not ocean swimmers — no friggin’ training!

They are sawing at the water with flailing arms flapping from side to side in a parody of actual swimming. I feel a sudden and profound gratitude for Ms. Pomeroy, my longtime swimming instructor on the Riverside of Ogunquit Beach and the years of her commanding my sister and I to “ jump in and swim to the sandbar now” in the 45 degree water of a 7:30 AM June morning in Maine. Precision, expertise, and no wasted stroke were her mottos and demands.

Living and growing up on the ocean and spending summers all day on Ogunquit Beach, my parents insisted my sister, brother and I take and pass the Red Cross swimming course schedule straight through Lifesaving. My sister and I are very strong swimmers. But, my summer buds, these two clowns?

My white whale catches another big gust and disappears from sight. I swim blindly on. Pulling out of a stroke and gulping air, I glance around for a second.

Holy fucking shit!

I am halfway to the earth’s curve. Well, to the shipping lanes. Meaning, I am a long way from the seawall and land. I have never swum this far out to sea. Turning and looking back toward the seawall, a gallon of seawater propelled by a fierce chop careens down my throat.

 Cough! Gag!

Well, at least French mainland kids will be psyched when they discover our boat on a Brittany beach. I give up hope of ever diving off it again. I look toward land again.

Crap, it’s a long way.

The seawall is nearly a mile away against a stiff choppy sea. The northwest wind is now my formidable enemy; it’s trying to blow me out with it. Twenty minutes of slogging, and I am tired. And, cold. One good thing: Gem and Cindy have long turned back.

Red Cross training, man. Thank you, Jesus. Oh, and, Ms. Pomeroy. I stroke on.

Gulp. Gag. I’m kinda developing a taste for seawater now — must be an acquired one - I’ve swallowed gallons. Mindlessly, I crawl and kick.

What I didn’t know and couldn’t really see this far away, was that, while my little drama was playing out, my parents, the Wells Beach fire department, and a throng of ogling onlookers had lined the seawall waiting to see if we would make it. To see if I would make it. Not sure what the fire department’s plans were. Unless that new ladder truck is secretly amphibious.

My dad was a lifeguard on Ogunquit Beach for years; I can only imagine what was going through his mind.

Dad is known as “Harry the Seal”. He loves the ocean, he loves to swim and he taught the three of us to do the same. His body surfing skills are unparalleled. Well, except perhaps by my sister and me who, with such surpassing training and long days at the beach doing nothing but riding waves with our sleek youthful bodies, learn to ride clean into shore and beach ourselves in the sand. People routinely ask how we do it and we are eager to share but, apparently, it is a singular skill, not for the random tourist or Sunday beachgoer. Few pick it up. We had the best teacher.

The good news about my parents having the wisdom to insist on good swimming training is that not only do I know how to swim well, but also how to rest when tired — the good old Elementary Backstroke — and to pace myself. I dig, dig, dig with the Crawl and then, resting backstroke, and back to the Crawl, the entire exhausting way back.

At this point, JAWS the movie is just a spark on a dendrite in Spielberg’s grey matter, but more pedestrian, run of the mill sharks lurking nearby suddenly occur to me and I freak out for a second.

Focus, man. Swim!

When I finally drag myself up the rocks to the seawall, cheers erupt.

Ohmyfuckingword, how embarrassing!

Am I shaking from the cold? Or from the cold reality of a stupid, life threatening mistake?

Mom grabs me swiftly and, in a quintessential Mom move, enfolds me in a green, wool army blanket, then ushers me in a walk of shame across the street to warm clothes and tea. The throngs stare.

When dry and warm, I want to go hang out with my friends like always but Mom’s having none of it. I guess I scarred her for life. Again.

You need to stay here and rest until tomorrow, Lisa.

OHMYGOD, Mom! Really??!! I’m fine now!!!

You can be outside. Stay in the backyard ONLY! No, your friends can’t come by! You need to rest.

Yeah, I scared the living shit out of her. Sorry, Mom! That really wasn’t the point! The POINT was the boat. Friends. Freedom. Fun. What a blast we had with that friggin’ stupid long-gone boat. Moan.

Wrapped tightly in wool blankets, I stretch out in the sun on the pink plastic chaise lounge in our backyard. I eye the kitchen window; I know she can see me.

I won’t leave, Mom, sheesh!

Shiver.

I kinda don’t wanna.

My omnipresent transistor radio sits beside me. It mocks me. “Gimme a beat boys and free my soul, I wanna get lost in your rock and roll and drift away…..”

Fuck you, Dobie Gray! Too soon!

The warm August sun lulls me to sleep.

Later that week in a rare silent stretch at the dinner table, Dad chirps up. Being wry is his strength.

Good job, kid. I was watching you, Lizzie. You were doing all the right things. But I was ready.

My obsession with staring glumly at my plate so I don't have to talk is momentarily paused.

Whoa. He was scared.

Remember this. 

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lisa stathoplos