Trinity Lake - Day 6 - Morning

 "And seemed to love the sound far more

Than ever I had done before.
For rain it hath a friendly sound
To one who's six feet under ground;"

-Edna St Vincent Millay - 'Renascence'


I am feeling the wine.

I took another cup to bed, and needed quite badly, in the middle of the night, my water bottle. 

The night, calm and quiet, no more than the rustling sounds of small creatures, the little red squirrels, around the campsite. But long stretches of awake, and when not awake, vivid unsettling dreams.
My dreams, all in a canoe, sometimes just an awareness of paddling, the glaring light blinding me, reflecting off the rippling lake. 

Or pools of colour. 

Blues turning to oranges, to reds, becoming a checkerboard, melting into a puddle of grey.

I fuzzily come to life, hearing something, 

the buzz of my companion the red squirrel, high in a tree.

6:35. 

I start a fire. Fill the kettle. Retrieve my breakfast bundle from the treetop kitchen.
Dragging out my day pack, sleeping bag, thin foamy. Eight by ten tarp.
Hoodie, jersey, hiking boots.

I peer into the sky.
The palest blue. A hint of mist. Warm. 

The promise of sun.

                                                             *

I load my gear into the canoe.
I have stowed away the flotsam and jetsam of my site, and as I paddle out into the bay, I sweep around for a shoreward view.
Nothing is visible. From fifty feet out, my site does not exist.

10:22 a.m., later than planned.
It is at least three hours, I reckon, for a solo paddler to voyage from my site to the cliff.

Mercifully, ideal conditions.

I am using my old camp paddle for this pilgrimage, 

which seems appropriate.
I am excited, and now that I'm underway, feeling stronger.

I cling to the shore, or rather, maintain about a twenty foot distance from the shore. It feels good to be on the water, to feel the rhythm. Each stroke moving toward the next, the canoe pushed forward, onward, the burn in my upper arm.

Owe-eese...owe-eese...owe-eese...as we used to chant.
Nine girls in three canoes over a long stretch of open water.

I've already stripped my sweater, and now just in a t-shirt, denim skirt, ball cap, am feeling the late summer heat.
11:30 a.m.
I am out of my uninhabited small offshoot bay, and into the main body of South Bay, Trinity Lake.
As the wee bit of wind is south-westerly, I feel it now. I keep close to the east shore.
There are cottages sprinkled along this part of the bay, cottages which didn't exist in my camp days, my earliest nearly fifty years ago. Being September, they mostly sit empty, staring their curtained and shuttered faces as I pass. I spot a dock about fifty yards on, someone moving about.
I have seen no one for six days, and wonder what I look like.

Hell-ooo! Out for a morning paddle?

I have moved farther off shore, trying to avoid just this. A wave, okay, answered by a dip of the paddle, but the idea of conversation spooks me.

Yes. (called landward) It's beautiful...(Please just let me get on.)

Where're you paddling from?

He is quite elderly, mid-eighties, but even so, he is fit, his face and arms deeply tanned.

He's in a pair of well worn cords, sleeves rolled up on a blue check viyella shirt, sandals, a full head of white hair.
Not at all wanting to get embroiled, I'm vague.

Just up the bay. (I keep paddling.)


Fresh pot of coffee here. Wife's just coming...

Not wanting to appear rude, I paddle toward the dock. Mrs. is heading down, a firm grip on the wooden railing, carrying a plate of something. She is small, in jeans and a yellow sweater, short, curly white hair, tanned face, beautiful old lady skin.
I reach the dock.
I'm shocked to see that she has bare feet.

Mrs: Beautifully warm for September. I'm Joan. And Harvey.

Me: Diana. (I hold onto the dock, my black fingernail showing.)

Joan pours two cups of coffee, adds a drop of cream, hands me one.

Me: Oh no - you have it.

Harvey: Not at all. We'll share... Know the lake well?

Me: Yes.

I have a sip of the excellent excellent coffee - it's been so long, too long - I try not to gulp.
I wonder if I look like someone who hasn't seen real food or drink for a long long time.
Wild-eyed. 

Setting the mug on the dock, I re-adjust the elastic holding back my hair.

Me: My family used to have a cottage at the far end of West Bay. And I went to Camp Trident, at the north end of the lake, for years. I guess I know it pretty well. The lake, I mean.

Joan offers me a cookie.

Harvey: West Bay? Why we rented a cottage on West Bay. For several summers. Long time ago now. 

In the late '50's.
Long before we had this.
When we were newlyweds. (He looks at Joan.)
After the new road went in, we built this one.
Which was your cottage on West Bay?

Joan touches his shoulder. Perhaps she thinks he's being a bit nosey.

Me: Becquet - the Becquet cottage. At the end of the bay.
I'm Diana Becquet.

Joan: Becquet? Becquet!
I remember the Becquets! Your parents? With a pile of small boys - you must have come later...

Me: Ummm, I was probably one of the small boys... I have four brothers. I...

Harvey: Your parents were English - your father - a professor?

Me: Yes. (But it comes out as a croak. So many memories.)

Joan: They're gone, dear? They were a fair bit older than us...

Me: Yes.

I think of my mother and father, who'd be in their late nineties, were they still alive.
My father.
In the night, just before sleep, the lilt of his voice sometimes visits me.
Reading aloud those long ago words of 'Treasure Island'.

"...but in spite of the hot sun and staring daylight, the pirates no longer ran separate 
and shouting through the wood, but kept side by side and spoke with bated breath."

And then, he'd turn to look at me, his hooded deep blue eyes.
My father.
The sweet distant scent of pipe tobacco, scotch, earthy summer sweat,
and with a half wink, (so as not to scare me), would slowly end the chapter:

"The terror of the dead buccaneer had fallen on their spirits."

                                                              *

September 1970

And the end of my third summer at camp after Ginny.

In spite of missing her companionship, guidance, her presence on 'The Loop', I found that I got along alright without her. I turned fifteen that summer, my last year (officially), as a camper.

I still helped out, also, in the Arts and Crafts, with Aki.

Aki had become a camp fixture.

My first art teacher, really, my mentor.

And I was one of the 'skilled canoeists' in camp. Being a C-I-T, I taught canoeing to the younger campers, in preparation for the following summer.  Willie had asked me to become a full-time canoe instructor, starting in the summer of '71.

Nine weeks at Camp Trident and $400. at the end of it.

In Toronto, Ginny was still a huge part of my life. 

She was beginning her third year of Theology at U of T, and was in the habit of coming to my parent's house frequently on weekends, sometimes for Sunday dinner, sometimes to spend the weekend with me. 
My eldest brothers Arthur and Mark, also at U of T at that time, hung about whenever Ginny was around, to talk about classes, profs, rallies, coffee houses. I loved all of this. I loved that Ginny was like another sibling. A sister.

At the start of her second year at U of T, Ginny rented a house with Margie, her life-long Windsor friend, and two other girls.

The house was on Earl Street, a short cul-de-sac off Jarvis, a street with small grassy yards, treelined. It was a bit ramshackle, a climb up to the top floor, and a long narrow hallway leading to the living space at the back.
It never occurred to me to wonder about their arrangements. Ginny and Margie shared the largest bedroom, each of the other girls having their own.

My parents, like the rest of us, loved Ginny, and trusting her implicitly, allowed me to spend the odd weekend with them. At fifteen, I loved this independence. I would sleep in their bedroom in a sleeping-bag on a camp cot. It was the early '70's, and walking down Yonge Street, along Queen or Spadina - to Chinatown, small art supply shops, fabric shops, eateries - was like a different world.

Though always close, my brother Dennis and I, at that time, pursued different interests. We were no longer at the same school. and Dennis was part of a group of, what one might now call, elite athletes. He and our brother John, both at the same school, were very keen on basketball, soccer, track and field, spending as a result, much of their time with their school friends.

I sometimes went days without seeing Dennis. 

But he was always around on the odd weekend that Bud came to Toronto.

This was, on Bud's part, ostensibly a visit to see Ginny. But as Bud had hit it off with Dennis from the very first visit, Ginny and Bud, out of habit, stayed at my parent's house when Bud came. Bud would arrive with a stack of albums, music that at that time interested Dennis and Bud, and as a result the two of them would spend most of the weekend in the rec-room, listening to music and only surfaced when heading for the kitchen for nourishment. We had a large rambling house in North Toronto on Brooke Avenue, and my mother loved having a full house. There were often, on a Saturday, eight or ten young people around for meals, to watch a Leaf game, or just to meet up before heading off somewhere.

Ginny always had an open invitation, and by extension, Bud. Over the years, this grew to include Margie too. It occurs to me, as I think back on this stage of my life, that Ginny and Margie were really my best friends, in spite of our age difference. I did have good friends at school, but not the sort to spend weekends with. 

And my camp friends, even after all those years, remained camp friends, 

the summer being our only time together.

My summer world was separate, like an island, removed from the grit and confusion of Toronto.

A refuge.

In 1970, Chip, Jessie and I were all still at camp. But, as is typical at that age, our interests had diverted somewhat. Jessie decided to work in the kitchen.She had never been particularly athletic, had always loved the behind-the-scenes operations of the camp kitchen, and had for two summers volunteered in the dishroom, and as back-up kitchen help, filling in when needed. 

Chip, (now once again 'Christine' except to Jessie and me), was interested in waterfront programming. 

She had done some lifeguarding, and helped organize regattas and special activity days. She was to be the assistant waterfront director in 1971, having her Bronze Medallion and Red Cross Instructors.

We were friends, but gradually, gradually went our separate ways. However, we'd still meet up at the canoe shed for the occasional evening paddle, something we had been doing

 for six summers.

And as for the cottage...

Fifteen year old me loved the cottage more than ever. As our school terms, in those days, ended for summer holidays at the end of May, we had three weeks of the whole family together in June.

It was a time of tradition.

A time of reverting to one's younger self.

Of camp fires, canoeing, sunsets, chilly nights, stars.

Of reading aloud.

Of bulky sweaters, sun-warmed towels, favourite meals.

And that first heart-pounding dip in the icy waters 

of Trinity Lake.