Water

The boys, age four, cast a fishing line and tread water respectively.

A bald eagle soars over the still but not quite glassy lake. Dragonflies hover, squirrels prance, turtles bask, a heron flaps its wings. Lake Avalon provides a quintessential summer for souls, young and old alike.

Our three families seek water annually. This vacation is a traditional reprieve from standard operations. Growing in significance every year, it imprints the beauty of nature, sunshine, friendship, and fun on our psyches.

Cooked meals - chicken and steak tacos, breakfast burritos, and lunchboxes - evoke the same joy as shared excursions to local restaurants, coffee shops, and pizza joints. Museums, hiking trails, record stores, and gift shops tell the story of the locale.

Boat days change from year to year. On Coeur d’Alene last year, we went fast. The choppy mid-lake water conjured an adventurous spirit for the kids, tubing and jet skiing for the first time. On Loch Lomond this year, the boat winds slowly toward the same cove day after day, where we drop anchor to jump, play, and swim in calm waters. Over and over, we leapt into the embrace of the spring-fed finger, not moving until lunch pails, green, purple, blue, pink, and yellow, are devoured between swim sessions. Returning to the dock, each child can drive the boat. A visceral and foundational rite of passage for any youth.

That serenity holds off the dock behind the house as well.

“Did you caught any?” Remy asks, still treading water.

“If we cooked it, it would be for dessert, and lunch, aaannnddd dinner,” Otto replies, holding the reel one-handed, looking at his friend, the inquirer, with engagement and genuine expectation. The group has caught a total of three fish to this point, all by the hand of Papa Bear, a seasoned fisherman. Despite the boys’ moderate obsession with catching and cooking fish, the two Bluegill and a single small Bass were all released back to their watery home.

In agreement, Remy responds, “Yeah.”

“I was just joking. That was a joke. I’ma try to aim it really close to that boat over dere.” A solid cast, not quite to the boat across the way.

“Ah! A dragonfly was going everywhere on me! A dragonfly was on my head, on my ear, on my cheek.” Still floating.

The water presides over all. We let it guide us in our activity. It drives the sensation of summer. Water embodies the spirit of the experience.

——

A common practice in the early years of parenting is the “drive nap.” Not necessary every day, but when schedules demand, naps occur in the car. We find it best to drive and let their slumber hit sufficiency.

These are enjoyable in new places. After a boat day, both of our children fell asleep. I dropped Andrea with the group for lunch set off to explore the area. Drawn only by feel, the winding roads set a path and setting for calm and appreciation. We turned left out of the parking lot and then only straight from there.

Without destination, without timeline, without plan, conversation, or concern. Shirtless and silent, everything settled. Thoughts quieted, the landscape brightened, and calm prevailed. We almost turned left toward Decatur simply because friends on this trip live a couple of houses away from the Decatur-Atlanta city line. We continued forward instead.

The two-lane highway winds and rolls. Twenty minutes into the journey, the vista expands on a sweeping right-hand turn. Hay bales punctuate an open field. I gradually realize the scale of this pasture as more hay bales near and far dominate the view. I am taken by them. They are beautiful, geometric, organized, and vivid. They are illustrative of this land and community. I drive through Gravette, noting the welcome sign, “Welcome to Gravette, Arkansas. Community of Beauty & Progress.” I smile and nod in appreciation and agreement.

That evening, while recapping the day, I described the beauty of that drive, highlighting the hay bales. I mentioned my ongoing effort to prioritize presence. That drive, the energy, the country, and the hay bales provided me with a profound sense of presence not easily or frequently achieved.

I’ll forever remember the hay bales outside of Gravette.

——

The next morning, I came inside after a morning swim with the kids off the dock to a missed call from my dad. Expecting a routine check-in or quick question, I called him back cheerfully.

“Hey, sorry I missed your call. How’s it going?”

“Not well. I have bad news.”

“What happened?”

“Nick drowned last night.”

“What?”

“Nick drowned last night,” he answered my bewildered question as if I needed him to repeat himself.

I sat down on the edge of the bed. I cried. I shook. It was one of the proverbial moments where the world collapses around you. I had questions, but none worth asking. A sense of finality reigned. My kind, curious, thoughtful cousin had passed.

My emotions oscillated between shock, grief, and disbelief the rest of the day. They would continue to do so for many days after. I let myself sit in the moment for some time. Andrea was there when I was on the phone. Perfect in her silent comfort. It felt right to proceed with the day as planned. For myself, for the kids, and for the group.

For a change of scenery, we went to the local water park for water slides, climbing walls, splash zones, concrete, a snack bar, and chaise lounges. Still, at the heart of it, water. Water with a renewed sense of its power as of that morning.

I thought about this dichotomy. Water gave us repose one moment, and tragedy the next. What a fascinating foundational component of our life on earth. It is worthy of veneration. We have always respected its strength. A reminder to always do so is helpful, though not like the one I received that morning.

I am most diligent about our kids’ location when we swim. This has always been true. Today, I was hyper-vigilant. Without subduing the fun of the day, I kept them in sight. Oblivious to the tribulation I reconciled in my mind, the children thrived. Everyone smiled, rode the rides, attempted a surprisingly difficult climbing wall in the deep end, snacked from the snack bar, and exhausted their souls to contentment and exhaustion.

It wasn’t until that evening that my composure started to falter. I became distant, quiet, and visibly troubled. The grief and shock mixed with exhaustion from the day and the week. Homesickness set in. The deep sense of grounding I felt the day before, after driving through a mystical land of hay bales, felt fleeting. I snapped at my friend for playing music too loudly. I snapped at my son for not wanting to shampoo his hair - a very reasonable thing for a four-year-old not to want to do. We saw the night through as it was our final night together, though my spark had diminished.

On the day of our departure, I was still reeling, navigating emotions while trying to stay present and joyful as we said our goodbyes.

We set off for the airport. I didn’t immediately recognize it, but when I saw the sign for Decatur pointing left, I realized we were on the same route as our driving nap a couple of days before. My mind was still afroth. Tears filled my eyes. Andrea provided silent love and support with knowing glances and shoulder pats. I underappreciated the drive and its vistas at that moment, those so heartrending two days before.

Until, without prompt, breaking the silence from the backseat, Otto quietly exclaimed a reminder he could never know I needed, “I heard you guys talking about hay bales.”