Take a Big Breath

I watched her from the front window, she was just standing there in the water. She was searching for something. The water in the lagoon was only a couple feet deep. But it was so clear, you could see the sandy bottom between the lily pads. She was about 5 feet tall with long legs. She took a step, then looked from side to side. Still searching. I was watching a great blue heron fishing for minnows in the lagoon. With a wingspan of 6 or 7 feet, she could flap up and up, until she was a speck in the distance, all in a mere moment. My husband Mark and I were once again visiting Ontario, Canada, 100 miles north of Toronto, in a little town called Port Sydney at a beautiful historic resort called Clyffe House. We were here for only one week out of the year and I was so happy to be there once again.

When I was a child, my mom, dad, brother and I came to Clyffe House for a week in August every year. It was our annual family vacation. But my brother died when he was 15 years old and I was 10. He drowned at a boy scout camp in our home state of Wisconsin. I couldn’t shake my hurt, the feeling of loss. It was a long time before I stopped feeling guilty for being alive. My parents were devastated, but they wanted to continue going to Clyffe House. They were reluctant to let me go out in a kayak or canoe, or let me go gunnel bobbing or water skiing. They told me to always wear a life jacket and I assured them I would.

I forgot about Clyffe House when my attention turned to college, marriage and two children of my own. It may seem strange, but 30 years later, it wasn’t water that made me think of Clyffe House. It was just the opposite. It was fire that caused me to remember. It was winter and Mark made a grand fire in the fireplace in our house in Denver. As we sat gazing into the flames, I remembered the fireplace in the Main Lodge at Clyffe House. There was always a fire going in the Main Lodge, even though it was August. I wondered whatever became of Clyffe House. Mark went to the computer and searched for it. To my surprise, Clyffe House had a website! We talked about it and we made a reservation to stay in the apartment above the boat house for a week in August. I was going back after 30 years! I was once again going to take a big breath and dive into the cold water of Mary Lake. But only in the shallow water. I was not ready to go into the deep water.

We have been visiting Clyffe House for four years now. All that time the fear of deep water still lurked inside my head. I had to conquer my fear of the deep water. I decided to do something about it. We started out canoeing in the shallows. I watched the color of the water change from sandy brown to dark blue. That meant I was in deep water, over my head. I couldn’t stand the dark blue at first, even though I was wearing a life jacket. I told Mark to steer the canoe back to shore. Gradually I was able to stop looking at the water and I turned my gaze to the horizon. This wasn’t so bad, I told myself.

Then I was ready to paddle out to Rocky Island. That meant crossing blue water 60-feet deep. If the wind was calm and there were no motorboats to make treacherous wake, I could do it. When the conditions were perfect, we left the Boat House lagoon and paddled out to Rocky Island. I bent my shoulders into the chore. We reached the island in about 15 minutes. Mark asked me if I wanted to paddle all the way around. Of course! After all, I had made it this far with no problems. I was having fun! We paddled the canoe around the back side of the island. It was calm and beautiful. No sunlight had yet reached the southwestern shore this morning. The water was inky black by the rocky cliffs. I didn't mind. For hundreds of years, this island had been the same. We drifted by the rugged landscape, sea gulls gliding overhead. The maple leaves were just showing a hint of red at their tips.

We rounded the curve and drifted out once again into the sunshine. That's when I realized that the wind had picked up. The waves came at us. Mark steered the canoe straight into the waves, which was the smart thing to do. My job in the bow was to provide as much power as possible. I bent my paddle into the lake. I lifted the paddle and smacked the lake again. I closed my eyes at the spray in my face. I paddled again. I felt the pain building up in my shoulders. No chance to stop. I glanced from left to right. No motor boats. That was good. I paddled again and again. The wind whistled in my ears and made whitecaps on the water. I paddled some more but I couldn’t see much progress. Then we were half-way to the sandy shore. Almost there, I thought. We can do it! I set my arms and my whole body to the rhythm inside my head. Almost there. Almost there.

I breathed easier as our canoe glided into the lagoon. The trip had taken an hour, but the accomplishment spanned four decades. I had conquered my fear of the deep waters of an Ontario lake. I was no longer afraid.