35. Boating with mom
Borne back ceaselessly into the past (the East River)
Most of the stories we tell about ourselves begin in childhood somewhere, perhaps in a dark corner down some small twisted path we can’t revisit as adults without experiencing spiritual claustrophobia. Others start in wide open fields of experience, spaces where anyone watching from the outside could spot the story’s conception from a mile out. Growing up often involves unpacking these moments in the hopes of finally releasing them. Or we just repeat the stories over and over: maybe this time it will all make sense and thus turn out differently, even though life only moves in one direction. Towards the end.
I have a lot of compassion for everyone going through this and even for myself when I am doing it. But this is a lead up to say I find stories about other people’s mothers and the weird wacky things they do very boring. Yet, I also have a mother, a mother I talk about all the time. She is truly weird and wacky, not like these other run of the mill narcissist moms or overbearing moms or hippy-dippy moms. A unique character who has shaped and warped me in so many ways that I am certain when she is gone, my last anchor to this earth will dissolve and I will float away myself. It’s different, for us.
Despite the fear I will lose my mind when she dies, we spend a lot of our time together arguing. This may never stop, until I say something unconscionably nasty to her as I’m holding her hand on her deathbed and she flatlines. Or vice versa! However, I have been trying to deliberately do things with her that create some nice memories to balance out the discordance. Kayaking for the first time together was perfect for this, because we could barely hear one another on the boat.
I kayak frequently because I love boats and water, but I had never gone kayaking at Brooklyn Bridge Park before and definitely not with my mom. I would not have thought to do it at all, except we passed by Pier 4 one day this June and it turns out it’s free and you can sign up online for a 20 minute spot. 20 minutes is plenty, because the area is fenced in by strict boundaries and several safety kayakers in green boats, wearing red vests and a look of serious determination. It’s also just about as long as my mom’s attention span.
Full disclosure, I frequently volunteer now with the local boathouse we went to, helping people in and out of their life vests and explaining that we don’t recommend taking your shoes off, but yes, they will get wet. And I’m often surprised by how many adult people are coming to kayak for the very first time in their lives, many of them obviously terrified. That bravery is very touching and sweet and it feels good to facilitate it in even a tiny way. I find myself getting kinder, softer, more patient, even to the people who are rude and annoying. There’s no real reason to do a hard thing you’ve never done before like getting in a kayak, and yet they do. This change in my personality does not last long after the shift is over.
My mom was not nervous. She loves boats as well (it’s genetic and astrological I am sure), but would probably not have the strength to locomote one on her own. I sat in the back of our two-person kayak, because that’s where the stronger rower should sit. She held her paddle in her lap as I pushed us around in a loop, back-and-forth, clockwise, counter-clockwise. There were single kayaks, but many more doubles in which an adult sat behind, filming their child attempting to row in front of them. I did my best to not run into them as the oblivious moms and dads let their infants ram at us.
This is emblematic of my relationship with my mom, a perfect physical manifestation of one of those stories I tell about myself: I take care of my mom. She does not take care of me. I take care of me. If she is happy, I am happy. If I don’t make something good happen, nothing will. If I am not vigilant, something bad will come and get us. The end.
She was unaware of these thoughts as we were on the kayak and I could tell from the relaxed posture of her body that she was day dreaming. The Manhattan skyline glimmered silver and blue, streaks of light breaking through the buildings to traverse the water in long steps. It was a hot day, but on the water there’s a convincing breeze that makes you believe you’ll always be cool.
My mom began to fiddle with her oar, before calling back something I couldn’t hear.
“WHAT?” I yelled, leaning forward.
“Let me try, I want to try,” she repeated.
I moved us to a relatively empty section and loudly explained which direction to hold the paddle, then which way to push the water, as she guessed wrong. We started to move a little, mostly from my previous momentum, but rotating was out of the question. A safety kayaker swept up to us as my mom started to make a break across the buoy line.
“I’m turning around! Turning around!” I told them, pushing the paddle deep on the left to move us right and back towards the shore. The volunteers helped us out of the boat and I hooked her arm through mine as we made our way back to our bags. I was very surprised to see she had planned ahead, packing dry shoes and shorts to change into. My own ass was soaked, the price you pay.
These excursions I go on with her, I think of them as “airing out mom,” and feel if I don’t do it she will sit and molder in her house. That’s not true, like many ideas I have. She is quite good at making new friends and finding reasons to keep living, two abilities I pray to maintain as I age. So I’ll be honest, I’m airing myself out, at least mentally. Blowing the cobwebs and dust off old memories and perceptions, trying to see if there’s another way to look at things, other perspectives to uncover about the past. Perhaps a fresh river breeze will blow all of that away entirely and then move us both in another direction.
If not there, you can try here.
Or just search “free kayaking” because New York is a place with a lot of water around it and thus a lot of water-based programs.
Where else should I take my mom for minimal stress?