Welcome to The Spot Writers. The prompt for this cycle is to write a piece that involves a celebration and a weather anomaly. This week it’s Cathy MacKenzie’s turn. Though she’s put Melvin to rest, she couldn’t resist revamping this chapter from the upcoming novella When Kayaks Fly and using it as her post, for it fits this prompt perfectly. Watch for the release of the novella, coming soon.
Cathy’s writings
are found in numerous print and online publications. She writes all genres but
invariably veers toward the dark—so much so her late mother once asked, “Can’t
you write anything happy?” (She can!)
Check out www.writingwicket.wordpress.com for further
information on her works.
***
September 1, 2021
by Catherine A. MacKenzie
My children’s laughter echoed across
the lake, mine just as loudly. Sophie, William, and Penny were jammed in or on
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 sole seat, paddled. I trailed behind in
Blue Origin (the name of my Pelican-brand kayak).
We were
heading to the small treed islands east of our house, where we’d dock at one of
the islands and explore. It was the last day of summer as far as my children
were concerned, what with school starting the next day, though not technically
the end of summer, which would arrive on the twenty-second.
One last
hurrah before school: a celebration of sorts!
Marie had
lovingly packed a picnic lunch of jelly and peanut butter sandwiches for the
kids, along with a dozen chocolate chip cookies. Each child had picked their
favourite juice box: 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
watertight compartment in the back of my kayak.
You’re now
familiar with two of my escapades (if you’ve been following along). This is one
incident I’ve never shared, one me and Marie rarely discuss. Some of it is
public knowledge—can’t hide everything from the internet and snoopy neighbours
and newspapers (those that haven’t gone out of business).
Marie’s
been a trouper though she’s blamed me more than once. (Between you and me, too
many times to count.) In retrospect, I shouldn’t have cheated on her after this
unfortunate incident that changed our lives and not for the better. Should’ve
treated her better, for sure. A thanks—a reward?—for her continued love? Better
jewels?
Marie
doesn’t 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. Had balked numerous times at sending
our kids to overnight camps but always relented in the end. I’m a persuasive
kind of guy! She’d been much too protective.
Me? Yes!
My parents sent all five of us kids to camp and swimming lessons (attempting to
get rid of us at the same time, obviously wanting a break so they could cruise
the world).
Despite
not being able to swim, Marie would 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 Porters Lake offered. Those, as I’ve
said, were rare instances.
She never
joined me when the kids were present, however. Felt those occasions should be a
bonding time between father and children. Truth be told, I much preferred her
staying home. I was always afraid she’d capsize and drown, not being able to
swim. Lifejackets aren’t always foolproof.
After that
day-before-school-started day (or, as I can refer to it now: The Day-Our-Lives-Changed-Forever
Day), she never kayaked again. Never stepped near the shore, even. She allowed
me my space (I sure needed it), to paddle and muse. My punishment, perhaps. As
if I weren’t punished enough.
That early
afternoon on the lake while kayaking, 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 calming warm
breeze morphed into a raging wind as if Mr. Porter (first name unknown) needed
to fill his empty belly or something. (Stupid weather anomaly!)
I’d been
into the booze too; can’t lie. (Never ever shared that before
now.) 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. And thirsty.
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
was an inanimate object and blameless, but later, I did blame it, of course,
though I should’ve blamed Marie, for it was her fault our kids never took
swimming lessons. She wouldn’t allow it. Had 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’ve.
Didn’t!
Afterward,
I blamed everyone and everything. Until I wised up. Couldn’t give up the booze,
however. Liquor was necessary to cope with life-after-the-accident.
Marie
never said a disparaging word to me afterward though, to be honest, it took her
several years before she formally forgave me. I killed her children, after all.
What sane person could ever forgive that?
But in my
defence, if I could’ve picked only one (or two) offspring, which one (or two),
would I have chosen? I wasn’t a Solomon, cutting a babe in half.
I admire
King Solomon. Despite having had 700 wives and 300 concubines, he was a wise
man. Wiser than me, for sure.
I
remembered what I learned in Sunday school when I was little, how Solomon
decided the fate of a poor defenseless babe.
Solomon
didn’t know how to handle two fighting mothers. Maybe he wasn’t so wise, after
all. Anyhow, he finally asked someone to bring him a sword.
I’ll let
the Contemporary English Version of the Bible (1 Kings 3:25-27) tell the rest of the
story (as Paul Harvey used to), for that Biblical writer nailed it way better
than I could’ve:
25”Cut the
baby in half! That way each of you can have part of him.”
26”Please
don’t kill my son,” the baby’s mother screamed. “Your Majesty, I love him very
much, but give him to her. Just don’t kill him.”
The other
woman shouted, “Go ahead and cut him in half. Then neither of us will have the
baby.”
27Solomon
said, “Don’t kill the baby.” Then he pointed to the first woman, “She is his
real mother. Give the baby to her.”
I dunno
what fate had in store for that kid later in life, whether he grew to adulthood
or not.
Of course,
as most parents, I do/did have a favourite, but that’ll always be my little
secret.
Back to my
tale...
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 and up again, gasping for breath,
gurgling, coughing, all the while screaming: “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. Porter had sucked their last breaths. The empty
green kayak-made-for-one slunk off down the lake toward the Atlantic Ocean as
if ashamed it had overturned and hadn’t protected its occupants.
After
several moments, reality set in. And I acted. What else could I have done? What
would you have done?
Me and
Blue Origin raced back to shore. I grabbed their lifejackets that lay neglected
on the dock and 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
floating dead body onto my kayak. Jammed lifeless arms into lifejackets. Zipped
the zippers. Yanked three belts across three chests as tight as could be.
Clicked each clasp into place.
After
kissing each slimy cheek, I gently let each kid slip back into the water,
silently praying to God. Hoping He heard. Prayed I’d be forgiven when I reached
the Pearly Gates and 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 Porter.
Watched it vanish into the horizon as the green kayak had.
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 Mr. Porter.
After
eating, I jabbed myself in the left shoulder with a sharp branch until I
pierced the skin and drew blood, which dripped down my arm and plopped onto my
leg until the blood clotted. I also bashed a rock against the left 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. Never! Man, oh man!
Search ’n
Rescue located me in the morning on September second, “washed up” on the shore
of that teeny 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. Instead, 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 listened carefully for
sounds of rescue boats, for frantic voices calling out in the dark, and when I
heard them, I snuck to the shoreline and lay down amongst the rocks.
I
should’ve been an actor. They believed my story. Everyone did. Even Marie,
though why should she have doubted me?
For days
after the tragic 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.
I still
harbour regrets. I could’ve saved one of my girls, maybe both, without issue.
At least, I think I could’ve.
But
(despite previous words) we still have William! (Yes, miracle of miracles,
William miraculously appeared. But that’s another chapter...)
To this
day, I still hear my girls’ laughter when I’m kayaking, especially when the
wind picks up and their voices wail in the wind: “Save
me, Daddy. Save me!”
***
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.com/
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