only rope I had of any length was stowed neatly in the boat’s storage locker. What to do? The breeze seemed to be picking up, ruffling the water and pushing the boat away. I didn’t even have my swim shorts with me. I looked around: nobody was there, no one was around to bear witness to my foolhardiness. In that respect, at least, it was my lucky day. I removed my shoes, rolled up my jeans, and stepped gingerly into the lake.
I thought if I were able to walk out to my knees and then stretch my arms fully, I might just be able to reach. I sloshed out deeper, but the boat seemed to be drifting away at the same speed. I was past my knees, then the cold water was cooling my tender regions, causing me to walk on tiptoes. Soon I was swimming, doing the breast stroke until I reached a dragging boat line. I turned and towed the boat towards shore.
I remembered the time when I had been so excited, and in such a rush to get over to our island cottage, that I had arrived at the launch and backed the boat in, forgetting to put the plug in the vessel. I backed it down into the water, unhooked it, got it started, and ran it over to the dock to load our gear and provisions. An old-timer standing there with a fishing line in the water, barely giving me any notice, mumbled almost incoherently, “Yer boat seems to be ridin’ low, young fella.” A pause to spit some tobacco. “Appears to be sinking — sure you ’membered the plug?”
As I swam, fully clothed, for shore, I consoled myself with the fact that at least this time, my act of stupidity had gone unseen. Too soon, as it turned out. I was halfway back, stretching my toes to feel the bottom, when I heard an approaching truck. I panicked and swam hard. Unfortunately, tugging a boat along slows you down. I was still a ways out when the vehicle came into view. I froze and dropped low in the water: “Please don’t look this way.”
A sister’s boat is asking to be hijacked.
My heart sank. It was the Brat and his grandpa, the same grandpa we had rented a boat from when our boat had broken down in the middle of the lake. It was the same precocious youngster who had called me a dummy, who had said that I didn’t know what I was doing when it came to boats.
The truck stopped and their heads slowly, and in unison, turned my way. Realizing that hiding was futile, I gave them a little wave, like I take my boat for a swim everyday.
“Grandpa, what’s that dummy doing now?” I heard the Brat’s voice through the truck’s open window.
“Hush,” said Grandpa. And then he yelled out the window to me, “Need a hand?”
“No. No, I’m good. Just checking for leaks,” I tried, knowing all too well that by evening, at the latest, my folly would be common knowledge around the lake.
“Grandpa?”
“Hush,” he said again, and they drove on.
The Robin
Once upon a midday dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore. While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping, rapping at my cottage door.
I heard the tapping, but could not immediately place the noise. It sounded like one of the kids playing a joke, tapping on the cabin door and interrupting my work. I yelled for quiet, but then realized I was being dim-witted: I was at the cottage myself this time. Still, my bellow had the desired effect and the outside world was once again peaceful.
I peered out the big dining room window at the front porch of the cabin, but seeing nothing I returned to my work. Before too long, the noise started up again, tap, tap, tap.
I got up from the table and looked out the window … nothing. With a furrowed brow I threw open the door. On the porch stood a robin — just a robin and nothing more. I jumped back with a start. Not that I am afraid of a robin, of course, but having such a bird knocking at my cottage door was slightly eerie. The robin, seeing me, also gave a start, dropped a thread of dead grass from her beak, and flew off with a squawk.
I looked around, smiled, then shut the door. I returned to my laptop and began tapping away myself. With no repeat of the rapping on the door, I soon got back into the rhythm of my work. During a brief pause and deep in thought, I gazed out over the beautiful lake. Suddenly I was greeted by the horrifying spectacle of a dark shape hurtling itself against the large window. I jumped up and ran to look, expecting to see a poor, stunned bird lying dying on the cottage porch.
Instead, I saw my robin. She hopped up on the armrest of the hewn log rocking chair, peered briefly in at me, and then suddenly assaulted the windowpane once again. I stared wide-eyed. Again and again she repeated the manoeuvre, hurtling herself at the window, falling back on the wood porch, and hopping back on the chair, before doing it all again.
The robin was stark raving mad, I was convinced of that. She was half cuckoo bird.
I had a sudden, horrible vision of her breaking the glass window and then attacking me where I stood, pecking me to death. I opened the door and shooed her away. She flew to a nearby tree and from there screeched at me, as if I were the crazy one.
I returned to my table but could no longer focus on any work. Time and time again, the robin returned to the porch, repeating her ridiculous attacks on the window. I tried shutting the curtains, to no avail. I tried moving the chair away, but this only served to eliminate one stage of her attack. I found a roll of masking tape and stuck strips across the glass panes, but this only slowed her for a while.
I looked around for ideas. I contemplated taping a photo of my wife to the window, but knew instinctively that even if this worked I would lose. I took the book jacket off a Rick Mercer Report book I was reading and taped the photo of Rick onto the glass. All was quiet. I looked out: the robin had retreated into the trees.
I felt quite alone the rest of the day and evening, and suffered through a restless night. I was up early the next morning, and when I opened the door a crack to look out I scared the robin away from her window perch. She had built a neat nest on the ledge, under the cover photo of Rick Mercer, his forehead only slightly whitewashed.
I had come up to the cottage by myself this time to do some cottage chores and to get some peaceful work time in, before the kids were out of school for summer holidays. I realize now why I have always insisted the cottage is meant to be a family place — it is a scary place to visit alone.
The Nesting Box
A neighbouring cottager gave me a nesting box a few years back. It was of simple wood construction, two feet high, one foot wide, and one foot deep, with an entry hole cut out in the upper front and a slanted roof that could be removed for cleaning. Following his instructions, I filled the box with clean straw in the autumn and nailed it onto a leaning birch tree, about ten feet from the ground and six feet back from the lakeshore. I’m not sure I expected anything.
The following spring, upon our return to the cottage and after all our opening chores were done, I spied the lonely box high in the tree and decided it was vacant. I wondered about hanging an “Apartment for Rent” sign. I climbed the rickety cottage ladder to see if anything, any animal or bird, had taken the time to check out the premises. I peered in the round entry door and was immediately taken aback by two glowing eyes and a terrifying hiss from within, a demonic sound that had me falling backwards from my stoop into the shallow lake waters.
For three springs running, the box was occupied. Each fall I would clean it and fill it with fresh straw, and each spring the female would be nesting. It is wonderful having a family of mergansers
