SUNRISE IN VERMONT, Part 2

Scattered among a beautiful Saturday spent with the Boston Symphony Orchestra and Chorus at their summer home in Tanglewood, Massachusetts; repeat trips to Burlington, Vermont, home of the University of Vermont; and a challenging day of navigating the Wine Trail (in French, no less) in southern Quebec, Canada, we squeezed in a day here and there to simply stay put at the cottage doing a bit of reading, writing, relaxing and, for BC, attempts to catch the big one or, in a pinch, anything with fins.

The cottage had its own small canoe and row-boat, and telling BC that he would be able to fish every day had seriously helped me convince him that two weeks in Vermont would be the best vacation of his life.  Considering how the trip had started, and how sweet he was about it all, I knew he would have permission to fish anytime he wanted.  So, the first day we spent at the cottage he decided he would fish from the canoe.  We hiked to the shore, turned over the canoe, found the oars and carried it to the water, flopping it in none too gently at my end.  Figuring he was set, I started back up the hill stopping mid-step when he suggested that I might enjoy a canoe ride.  "Don't canoes tip over easily?", I asked.  "Not if you know what you're doing," he corrected.   "I've never been in a canoe," I offered, "I'm not really big on boats."  Here it comes:  "But every fellow wants to take his best girl for a canoe ride."  He really said that and  I was stumped for a comeback.  I was trapped.

I followed his instructions to the letter.  I stepped in to the canoe as directed.  I carefully worked my way to the front seat, sat in the exact middle, didn't move, didn't lean, didn't breathe.  (Bear in mind, the canoe was alternately floating and scraping bottom in a few inches of water.)  He stepped in, pushed off with an oar, and we headed to sea...or is that to lake?

At my request, we stayed relatively close to the shore (I'm also not big on swimming in lakes), and I sat still as a statue while he rowed earnestly behind me.  Finally, after I offered a number of times to help row (the man is not a spring chicken) he handed me an oar, called out succinct instructions, and much to his surprise as well as my own, I turned out to be a natural born rower.  As long as I could row on the left (port side) of the boat I was really good.  The starboard--not so much.  Despite my winning form, I seriously lacked stamina, so it was soon time to take her to shore. We managed that, if not gracefully, at least successfully.

I quickly learned BC was just warming up.  He immediately put the rowboat in the water--canoes are more tricky when the wind comes up (which it had) and there is only one person inside as this apparently throws the weight and balance calculations completely off.  Rowboats must be more forgiving.  It was a beautiful day and from my vantage point higher on the hill I could see a couple of wind surfers playing with the breezes, a canoe slowly making its way from the New York shore, and numerous fishing boats roaring by sending out wakes that smacked against our shore.  

 I settled in with my laptop, Kindle and camera, occasionally glancing out toward BC and trying to remain calm as he rowed  farther from shore.  He would row, cast his fishing line, drift gently, then repeat the cycle.  Suddenly I heard him call and, thinking the worst, jumped up to see him gesturing and shouting that a canoe had just flipped over and he was off to the rescue.  I hurried to the shore and spotted the upside down canoe with a wind surfer closing in on it.  Farther north, BC had turned his boat around and was rowing like a crazy man toward the action.  I (have I mentioned my glass has always been half empty?) within a split second had written the conclusion of this event in my head.  BC will have a heart attack rowing to the canoeist, who will prove to be an Olympic swimmer after he safely reaches the New York shore from whence he came.  The wind surfer will vainly attempt to apply CPR to BC but, since his certification has lapsed, will be unsuccessful. I, despite my grief, will be sued for negligence since I  forgot to dial 911...but wait!  I can't dial 911...there is no cell phone reception within miles of the cottage.  I'm helpless here and beginning to stress. 

Having lost everything, I looked up again.  A large chartered fishing boat was quickly approaching the upended canoe complete with canoeist clinging on tightly, and the wind surfer.  BC was ten or fifteen feet from them all, still rowing like crazy. I watched as the fishing boat hauled in the canoeist/swimmer and tied onto his craft.  BC pulled close to the fishing boat and the wind surfer glided to his side. The guys on the fishing boat cracked open beers and they all drifted and shot the bull for the next thirty minutes.  Another successful manly mission. It was one of BC's favorite vacation days.