Archives of The Cheerful Oncologist, Volume 2

Yesterday we had a fishing contest, which allowed me the opportunity to demonstrate my skills in rigging lines with hooks, leaders and lures. I regret to announce that when the gun sounded at 10:00 A.M., signifying the start of the event, I was sitting quietly on the beach in a trance, lost in a spiderweb of line attempting to make our tackle sea-worthy. The casual beachcomber who happened to amble by as I was tying knots would have no doubt observed the similarity between my dexterity and that of a grizzly bear harvesting salmon out of an Alaskan river.

After finally loading up the ship with enough equipment to haul in a school of Chilean sea bass we set sail. With my son as first-mate, we navigated through troughs and swells, over fields of green weeds (remind me to avoid the arugula when contemplating menus in the future), and with our faces whipped by the wrath of Boreas, we sent our offerings to the mysterious inhabitants of the deep in hopes that they would find them as delectable as I do a silver plate of Beluga on toast.

Our journey was not without incident, as the typical police report would say. In the hopes that future anglers will read this brief missive and file it under the catagory of “Don’t Let This Happen to You”, I offer the following tidbits of advice, as painful as they are to recall:

1. One must use the utmost of precaution when tossing any liquids from the bow of a boat reeling in the face of a stiff wind.

2. There is no quick and masterful way to remove a fishing lure that has become inexplicably lodged between the shoulder blades of one’s shirt.

3. Fish have sharp fins; fisherpersons have soft, doughy hands. The chemical reaction that occurs when, as Hardy would say, the convergence of the twain occur, can produce only blood, toil, tears and cuss words.

4. The most foul utterance that could ever escape the chapped lips of the ersatz Ahab during a fishing trip is this: “backlash”.

5. If at all possible, try to establish that all members of the boating party are either seated or securely lashed to the mizzenmast before hitting the throttle with the same amount of vigor as if seeing the green light at a drag race.

6. When the fish are on the stringer and the sun is high in the sky - steer for home and a nice hot lunch.

And remember, a fishing trip without catching any fish is just a long, boring boat ride.

The first thing I do up here each morning is to check the sky and the temperature. If the sun is shining, and if it is above 50 degrees [50 degrees? Does he have to rub it in to us sweltering through this heat wave? -Ed.]there is a good chance we can all hit the beach for an afternoon of drowsy omphaloskepsis in the sand alternating with what I believe the mystery writers describe as “hanging on for dear life” while being pulled on skis by a cousin with a devilish look in his eye.

It was while flipping through the pages of some lightweight reading fare on the shore yesterday that I was suddenly taken by an equally inconsequential observation, the kind that arises from the demersal pits of the brain that open up when exposed to the sound of waves. I came to the conclusion that the beach represents an ideal study of how our focus changes as we grow up. First, as children we romp about the beach, but in a very small world - at the water’s edge. We study the sand like a paleontologist who has just unearthed an incisor the size of a stalagmite; we dig and pile up and then run into the water just far enough to dowse our sandy bottoms, then wade back towards buckets, shovels and (if we’re lucky) some unsuspecting frog peeping out from underneath an old fishing boat. We are oblivious to the chattering crowd around us.

As teenagers though, the beach suddenly and wonderfully enlarges, like the first blinding moments of the nascent universe. People of all ages and shapes descend upon us, some with barking commands like “Cut that out!”, others with willowy or chisled bodies designed to induce delerium. We become social creatures, always on the lookout for the next segment of fun. We roam up and down the beach as far as our parents will allow, and huddle together in adolescent gangs as tightly as a group of cave dwellers around a winter fire. We cherish our time together.

Those days for me are long gone, yet I still think of myself as young enough to put on the occasional grass skirt and entertain the gang. Now though, as I relax in a chaise lounge I find myself scanning the entire setting, unable to concentrate on my potboiler. I enjoy staring at the horizon - the distant green forest across the lake, the loons circling around just past the dock, even the kids burying themselves in sandy coffins. The beach is a huge place for me now - a vast cornucopia of sight and sound that is impossible to contain within one view, one visit, one vacation. Life seems to flow in all directions on the beach - including the past and the future, and all the beach asks is that those who come to rest upon it abandon all excess baggage and unleash the imagination. The scene is perfect - all that is missing is the right frame of mind.

Five generations of my family have summered up here in the northern aspen and pine forests. Strolling around the sandy, loamy grass fields of this peninsula, sitting under the giants lining the beach with dark green shade, I find myself searching for signs of the past. Out on the water I can see men in ironed white shirts rowing huge wooden boats across the bay. As they pull onto shore children in shorts and suspenders rush to greet them and drag wet, flopping bundles of fish across the sand, too heavy for thin arms to lift.

Up next to the log cabin a patch of grass conceals an ancient pit, once filled with blocks of ice cut during the dim daylight of winter and buried deep under the snow until the change of seasons brought sputtering cars, straw hats and grease-smeared aprons back to the lake. I see my great-grandfather lift a massive, steaming cube out of the warm earth like a magician and place it on the back of a horse-drawn wagon, wiping sawdust off of it with a red rag.

Echoes seem to carry across the lake and forest like a bell ringing over a mountain valley. From the old fish house at the water’s edge, above the ribbon of smoke twisting from the chimney, from the gnarled nets now hanging high up against the wall of a forgotten garage, I hear shouts of trees bending under muscles and axes, squeals of cold water hitting unsuspecting backs and most of all, laughter.

Meandering around this timeless home, my footsteps rest upon others laid long ago, and below those anothers, each sinking into the earth and leaving behind a record of those who came up here over all these years to be together and daydream under the silky clouds.

It seems crazy to find heat so far north, but up here this week in the pine forests that envelope the walker like giant totem poles, on the baking sheet hot sand of the beaches, and on the gravel roads that crunch with each step, I find myself ablaze with wonder at how hot it is.

Time passes so quickly up here - one minute we are piling out of the van, shouting hello to all the folks, and before the full moon can light up the constellations we are standing over suitcases, packing with the same emotion one has when standing before a train station waving goodbye to the oldest son as he leaves the farm for college -and forever. We therefore must enjoy each moment in the sun as if time has reached its limit, slowing each tick of the clock like a marble descending through molasses.

This is all the more reason why I smile at the hot sun as it sautes us during the glorious afternoon. When one is on a lake vacation one is at the mercy of the weatherman, and I’ve been up here at times when thunderstorms are so violent they seem to punch one in the gut with fury, sending dogs and men racing for cover. I’ve also seen vacations when the air was so cold it seemed that the glaciers who silently crawled back toward the North Pole 75,000 years ago have awakened and sent their legions of icy soldiers back to flatten the forests and cities, restoring the frozen tundra that held dominion over all for so many eons.

So let the lazy afternoon heat up the water, let the frogs hide under paddle boats and docks, let the sand spiders hot-foot it through the tiny dunes covering the sloping shoreline - and let us rejoice in the warmth of the sun. Tomorrow’s storm clouds may be huddling just beyond our sight. We sit in the water in our swimsuits, awaiting them with a defiance that comes from spending a day without memory - a moment of pure joy.

The command “suspend your imagination” was never better used than when sitting in a small fishing boat in the middle of a cool morning breeze, watching the sun creep slowly over the tree tops. It is warm out here, yet not warm - the northern chill which hibernates during these summer months sometimes yawns and sends a refreshing breath over the faces of hopeful fishermen - like yours truly.

What is it that makes us sit patiently on an old vinyl cushion, leaning over a slender pole, watching the tiny ripple undulating in the black water, waiting…waiting for a frightening creature from another world to find our false offering of sustenance and grab it like a Parisian pickpocket? Those goggle-eyed denizens of the murky deep who do take the bait find themselves jerked out of their world faster than a rocket trip to Mars as shown on the late, late show.

Now, two singular citizens of nature find themselves staring incredulously at each other. As I awkwardly grasp the giant lower lip of the bass, I marvel at the beauty of this sleek racing body. What a blessing it is to be able to see such a wonder, hidden from us under the marble surface that flows in all directions, yet conceals its treasures from those who use gaseous oxygen to survive.

I unhook this pulsating pound of muscle and send it back to the world where it soars - a mirror image of the feathered glider that circles lazily over my head, its eyes focused on the twinkling water below.

There are certain pauses that occur during a lake vacation when it seems that time suddenly holds its breath, then exhales with such a violent burst of chaos and laughter that we forget where we are. These moments can catch one by surprise, such as when a fish hits a lure and almost knocks the rod out of a drowsy hand. Sometimes they build inside us, filling us with a silly fear as we sink deeper into the cool water, balancing ourselves with care, breathing faster and faster until we yell out “Hit it!” and our arms jerk us out of a crouch up, up onto two tiny planks that send us flying across the rainbow-flecked spray like a bobsled leaning into a curve.

Later that afternoon, after the wind has pushed mountains of clouds across the lake, a distant gray wall approaches the shore. We wait for it - our faces toward the misty curtain, watching it roll across the black and white waves, waiting for the inevitable sign that the day’s fun is over. When the first sting of rain hits us we scream with delight and scramble through the pine trees back to the cabin, where a lonely deck of cards lies with anticipation on an old wooden table.

Of course, being up north has its peculiar challenges as well. When the weather turns baking hot and the Canadian breeze dies, the air is filled with buzzing tormentors - a plague, it would seem, sent from the forest to those who dare to invade its solitude.

I’m talking flies, man…deer flies, horse flies, and those absolutely merciless snipers of ankles and backs-of-knees: those “little black flies” from Dante’s imagination, it would seem.

What are we humans to do? We can sit on the beach wrapped in so many towels we look like Aunt Dahlia on the one and only cruise she took in 1959, or we can soak ourselves in DEET, which not only keeps bugs away, but friends and family, too. Try that sometime, then go jump in the lake…and resurface only to realize that all your protection has just been washed away. Your pasty white back now resembles a giant slab of beef to the army circling overhead. If you listen closely you can hear “Banzai!” just before the bite is put on you.

Did I mention there are mosquitoes up here too? Buzz off!

“I’m going for a quick run - leave the dog inside. I want to run alone.”

But it is impossible to be alone when jogging through the verdant forests of the north. A constant companion floats along beside runners who pad down gravel roads cut next to clear water, or huff up gentle hills carpeted with an endless supply of rust-colored pine needles. We hear it high above our heads, a gentle hush caressing the leaves that undulates with life as it accelerates, then quiets itself, then awakens to push the treetops together with the sounds of a waterfall dancing through the forest.

It is the wind who joins us this morning - a friend who will whisper its secrets all day to those who listen, until the last ember of sunlight fades from the western skyline, and the lake once again is left alone to its dark slumber.

The lake is beautiful up here - when standing on the shore, a warm breeze caressing the face, the water shimmers with light like a giant pan of diamonds sifting from the touch of an unseen hand.

Also, what is it about water sports that brings out the teenager in all of us? About five minutes into a long ski run yesterday my left knee suddenly filed a complaint against my adolescent brain for subjecting it to such unwarranted abuse. Tough luck, I say - fun is a fleeting streak in the hot night sky for most of us working stiffs, so we’re going to revel in it while we’re on vacation.

Time for your narrator to head up north where the lakes are clear and the mosquitoes look at tourists like Tantalus ogling a fruit salad at the local farmer’s market. While I enjoy a bit of well-deserved R & R - fishing, water-skiing, hitting the ice cream parlor - I’ll try to do a little vacation-blogging.

But not too much.

P.S. I do a really mean loon call - anyone else out there good at this?