Anniversaries and Boats
Last year on the dance floor at my daughter’s wedding, my girlfriends and cousin gave me the encouragement and approval I needed to take a leap. To start a Substack column. I’m risk averse and have all the doubts belonging to the writers I meet and conspire with. But these wonderful women told me to go for it. This is my 25th column. I’ve learned some stuff and I’m probably continuing to make the same mistakes.
Boats
I love seeing water, even boats. But I prefer to see both from land. With my feet planted solidly on terra firma.
My Aunt Helen had a canoe and told my parents they should get one. They put a fiber glass canoe on lay-a-way at K-Mart. To bring it home, my Dad tied it upside-down to the top of his car. It was bright yellow and lived in the garage on wooden brackets my Dad built just for this purpose. I can’t count how many times Dad and Luke bumped their heads on it.
I hated canoeing with my family. I wasn’t allowed to bring a library book and I easily get motion sick. Same reasons I hate car rides. Let me stay home and read please.
But I was forced to go canoeing with my family.
Mom sat in the front. Luke sat on the floor of the canoe in front of her. He loved being outside. And wet. And dirty. Dad sat in the back and steered. I sat on the floor of the canoe in front of him. He would paddle a stroke or two on one side and then switch. Back and forth. When he changed sides, the paddle swung over my head, splattering droplets of water on my glasses. And Dad thought it was hysterical to drop a piece of seaweed on me. Every time. Gross! Slimy wet vegetation. I was not like Luke. I did not enjoy being outside. Or wet. Or dirty.
Also, did I mention the drops? I had a lazy eye. One of the treatments were daily drops of atropine. The drops you get to dilate your eyes at the eye doctor. Except I had them from my Mom daily.
My eyes were dilated. There is no shade in the middle of Lake Monona. I get motion sick. I couldn’t bring a book. And my Dad loved dripping seaweed on me.
I was never a fan of the canoe.
I am a fan of Chicago’s many boat tours. My eyes are no longer dilated on a daily basis. There is shade. And my Dad can’t torture me with seaweed.
We love Chicago. We’ve taken many vacations there. We have been on many boat tours.
One year Eric and I were there with all five kids and my parents. The baby, Joe, was two and a half. We spent the morning at the Shedd Aquarium and feasted on Chicago hot dogs for lunch while watching the Tall Ships on Lake Michigan.
After watching the ships, we all went on a boat tour. It was Joe’s naptime. But instead of sleeping he decided to scream “I hate boats” for thirty-eight minutes. At minute thirty-nine he finally konked out. His sweaty face and plastered blonde curls peered at me from the bear hug where I was holding him, preventing his attempts to launch his overtired toddler self overboard. My husband received my glare when he offered to take the slumbering sweaty child from me. I was barely breathing. No way was I moving the cherubic sleeping tyrant.
On our Chicago vacation last summer it was just Eric, me and six foot teenage Joe. I took glee in reminding him of that strenuous boat tour as the three of us relaxed yet again on a Chicago river boat.
The day after my college graduation I flew to Boston to spend a week with my beloved Aunt Carol. She and her dear friends showed me all of Boston including the Swan Boats in the public garden. We kept our feet dry as we walked the gangway from the paved garden path and took our seats on the comfy benches. The tour guide talked as two huge majestic swan statues on the back of each boat oversaw the tours.
When I read about Swan Boats coming to Madison, I wanted to relive the magical memories of my decades ago trip. My dear husband researched Madison Swan Boats. He arranged a babysitter. After sharing an anniversary anchovy pizza on the Paisan’s terrace overlooking Lake Monona, he surprised me at Vilas Park with a Swan Boat rental.
Except these were not the Boston Swan Boats. They were paddle boats with a goofy swan on the back.
Instead of keeping our feet dry, we rolled up our pant legs and waded through the muck to get in a tiny tippy paddle boat. Memories of my Dad dropping seaweed on me and the sulphur smell of the yuck on the beach gagged me. Eric tried to pedal us into open water as I fretted and complained. Ten feet from shore we were still mired in seaweed and muck and I lost it.
Eric pedaled us back, helped me get to shore and went to return the life preservers to the young man working in the rental booth.
“Dude. You paid for an hour and you were gone for like twelve minutes.”
Eric shook his head, accepted his deposit and said, “She’s had enough.”
Every year I tell him I DO NOT want to almost drown for our anniversary again. Every year Eric says, “YOU wanted to go on the Swan Boats and we were never even in water up to our knees.”
(Every time I post a new column on Substack, Eric threatens to create his own column where he tells his side of my stories. So this time I included his side right here. Yes, Honey, I threw a fit when you did exactly what I asked.)
Someday we’ll go to Boston and I’ll show him what I really meant when I said I wanted to go on the Swan Boats.
My daughter and son-in-law just celebrated their first anniversary. My husband and I just celebrated our 31st. On land. And this column marks one year of pushing words uphill on Substack.
Happy Anniversaries!
There is nothing wrong with wanting to be dry in a boat. Fun memory.