The End of that Summer

Welcome to The Spot Writers. This month, we wrote about ending the summer with a great hurrah—a dark, chilling account.

Cathy’s novels, WOLVES DON’T KNOCK, a psychological drama, and MISTER WOLFE, the darkly dark sequel or stand-alone novel (18+), are available on Amazon. MY BROTHER, THE WOLF, the last of the series, is scheduled for release in 2022/2023.

This tale, “The End of that Summer,” morphed into a dark, chilling story. Read if you dare...

 

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The End of that Summer

by Cathy MacKenzie

 

Their laughter echoed across the lake, mine just as loudly. The three of them—ten-year-old Sophie, eight-year-old William, and six-year-old Penny—were jammed into the green, one-seater adult kayak. Penny was hunched on the back; Sophie sat on the front hump as if she were Jacques Cartier leading a great expedition; and William, sitting in the middle in the only seat, paddled. I trailed behind in my blue kayak. We were kayaking in Sinclair Lake, heading to the small, treed islands west of our house, where we’d dock at one of the islands and explore. It was the last day before school started. One last hurrah! Though not technically the end of summer, it was the last day as far as my children were concerned.

 

Marie had lovingly packed a picnic lunch of jelly and peanut butter sandwiches for the kids, along with a dozen of her signature chocolate chip cookies. Each child had picked their favourite juice box, either apple or orange. I had a bottle of water and a ham sandwich. Everything had gone into an insulated bag, which I stowed in the water-tight compartment in the back of my kayak.

 

My kids have gone out often in the kayaks. You’ve read of my previous adventures I’m sure, so you’re familiar with two of my escapades. This is one I’ve never shared and an incident Marie and I never discuss. But she’s been a trouper all these years, never blaming me. In retrospect, I shouldn’t have cheated on her those years after that incident. Should’ve treated her better, for sure. A thanks—a reward?—for her continued love.

 

Marie used to kayak on occasion even though she’s never been one for the water. Doesn’t even swim. Never had lessons, she told me. What the hell, I thought at the time, before we married. What parent doesn’t enroll their kids into swimming lessons? Isn’t that the fun of summer: swimming (with lessons), camping, biking? Marie had never camped, either. Wouldn’t even let our kids attend overnight camps. She’d been much too protective.

 

Me? Yes! My parents sent all five of us kids to camp (attempting to get rid of us at the same time, probably so they’d enjoy a pleasant break) and to swimming lessons. James, my oldest brother, worked as a lifeguard at White Crest Beach for several summers until he graduated high school and disappeared to college. Married some co-ed, last my parents heard, which is what they’d relayed to us. Appeared his wife didn’t want to deal with in-laws. Thought married life would be easier without them. Wow, how right she was! Well, all that’s hearsay, of course, and hearsay, as everyone knows, doesn’t stand up in a court of law. All I know is, he returned home rarely during his college days (most times without his wife-to-be) and never again after graduation. (We assume he graduated.) My parents paid for all his courses at the local community college. When I was older, possessed with more smarts, I suggested they contact the college to see if he had graduated. Might be a clue as to where he vanished. Nope, they wanted no part of it. “He’s history now,” they’d said. Surprising that parents would feel that way, but that was my parents for ya.

 

The other four of us made our way without our parents’ help. Obviously, once they were burned... (Thanks James!)

 

We all turned out okay. We’re all still alive, still kicking dust against the wind.

 

Anyhow, back to Marie. Despite not being able to swim, she’d don her fluorescent green lifejacket, slip daintily into the green kayak, and wait for me to stumble into mine. And then we’d be off, exploring everything that Sinclair Lake offered.

 

She never joined the kids and me, however. Felt those instances should be a bonding time between a father and his children.  Truth be told, I much preferred her staying home. I was always afraid she’d capsize and drown, not being able to swim. Life jackets aren’t always foolproof.

 

But after that last day of summer back in the 80s, she never kayaked again. Rarely stepped near the shore, even. She allowed me my space, to paddle and muse. My punishment, I suppose. As if I weren’t punished enough.

 

That early afternoon on the lake, the kids frolicked and fought, as kids do, and too late, I realized they hadn’t donned their lifejackets. By that time, we were out too far to turn back and, as fate would have it, the calm, warm breeze turned into a raging wind as if Sinclair needed to fill his empty belly or something.

 

I’d been into the booze, too. Can’t lie. But I wasn’t drunk. Just had a couple of shots. The kids had taken forever to get their acts in gear, so my plans for a mid-morning paddle ending in the early afternoon turned into one that hadn’t begun until close to one o’clock. By then, I was cranky and hungry.

 

Other than the kids rough-housing on the kayak and the wind sweeping in from nowhere, so many other things went wrong that day.  To begin with, three kids shouldn’t have been in a kayak made for one. The kayak’s an inanimate object and blameless, but I did blame it, of course, though I should’ve blamed Marie for it was her fault our kids never took lessons. She wouldn’t allow it. Said her parents were right: kids needed to learn on their own. “Nature’s way,” she’d said. Funny that nature never taught Marie. Apparently, nature never taught my kids, either. I could’ve taught them and, in retrospect, I could’ve. Should have.

 

I blamed everyone and everything for many years. Until I wised up. Couldn’t give up the booze, however. No, liquor was necessary in order to cope with life.

 

Marie never said a disparaging word to me after the accident though, to be honest, it took her several years before she formally forgave me. I killed her kids, after all. What sane person could ever forgive that?

 

But in my defence, I thought I did the right thing. I couldn’t save them all. How could I pick a favourite? (Of course, as most parents do, I did have a favourite, but that’ll always be my little secret.)

 

So...

 

I sat in my kayak made for one and watched every child of mine drown. One by one. Each of them sinking, surfacing, pulled under, up again, gasping for breath, gurgling, coughing. Screaming at me: “Daddy! Daddy, help! Help...”

 

After the last one disappeared below the surface, I became frantic. Adrenaline kicked in, but by then it was too late. Sinclair had sucked their last breaths. The green kayak made for one slunk off down the lake toward the Atlantic Ocean as if shamed it had overturned and hadn’t protected my kids.

 

After several moments, reality set in. And I acted. What else could I do? What would you have done?

 

I paddled back to shore. Grabbed their lifejackets that lay neglected on the dock. Paddled back to where I’d last seen my sweet kids. By the grace of God, I found them. Don’t ask me how.  A miracle, for sure.  Pulled each dead body onto my kayak. Jammed lifeless arms into lifejackets. Zipped the zippers. Yanked the three belts across their chests as tight as could be. Clicked the clasps into place.

 

And after kissing each cold, wet cheek, I let each kid gently slip back into the water, silently praying to God. Hoping He heard. Prayed I’d be forgiven when I reached the Pearly Gates and that they’d open wide for me. That I wouldn’t burn in one of Satan’s fire pits.

 

I paddled to one of the farthest little islands, where I forfeited my kayak to Sinclair. Watched it vanish into the horizon as the green kayak had. As James had those many years ago.

 

Thankfully I had the foresight to remove the insulated pack of food. I demolished my ham and cheese, guzzled the kids’ juices (saving the bottled water for later), chomped on a few cookies. I tossed the peanut butter and jelly sandwiches into the lake for Sinclair.

 

After lunch, I jabbed myself with a sharp branch until I pierced the skin. The blood dripped down my arms and legs until it finally clotted. I also bashed a rock against the side of my head. Man, did that hurt! I had to sit still for several too-long minutes while I recovered. I’ll never do that head-bashing again. Man!

 

Search and Rescue located me in the morning, “washed up” on the shore of the island, wedged between two large boulders. The sun had just begun to rise, and the sight of that orb ascending to where the moon had once hovered was the most amazing sight, one etched in my memory for all time.

 

Between you and me (hush-hush, please), I hadn’t stayed on the rocks the entire night. That would have been totally unnecessary, serving no purpose whatsoever except to place me in more pain. I hid behind the trees, watching stars appear between the branches. Wished upon the biggest and brightest star.

 

But it was too late for wishes.

 

I knew they’d find me that night or early the next morning. I’d listened carefully for the sounds of rescue boats, for frantic voices calling out in the dark, and when I heard them, I snuck to the shoreline.

 

I should’ve been an actor. They believed my story. Everyone did. Even Marie, though why should she have doubted me?

 

For a few days after the accident, my kids’ sweet voices woke me at night—if it wasn’t Marie’s sobbing that transported me out of my sound, drunken-infused sleep. Luckily, she gradually got over it.

 

It’s been over twenty years now, and I still have regrets—regret I hadn’t saved my favourite child.

 

I could’ve saved one, maybe two, without an issue. At least, that’s what I remember from that time.

 

To this day, I still hear my children’s laughter when I’m kayaking, especially when the wind picks up, when I hear their voices wailing in the wind: “Save me, Daddy. Save me!”

 

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The Spot Writers—Our Members:

Val Muller: http://www.valmuller.com/blog/

Catherine A. MacKenzie: https://writingwicket.wordpress.com/wicker-chitter/

Phil Yeats: https://alankemisterauthor.wordpress.com

Chiara De Giorgi: https://chiaradegiorgi.blogspot.ca/