The silent magic of the marshes attracts and entrances a boating family
Issue 21 : Nov/Dec 2001
The oars cut cleanly through the calm water. I pull the rough handles toward me and then push them aft, lifting the oars out of the water. Gretchen and I row in perfect cadence with a clear one-two, one-two rhythm.
“Pull left,” Mom says from the bow of the peapod. I tug harder with the left oar on the next stroke and watch as we narrowly miss a faded pink mooring ball encrusted with a season’s slime. The mooring slips from view as we pull away from it.
“A little to the right,” Dad says, guiding us toward the low bridge at the head of the harbor. Without breaking our rhythm, I glance over my shoulder to see our destination. The bridge is closer than when I last looked. The tide is still flooding, but just; it will turn soon.
“Ship your oars, Katie,” my sister instructs me. “I’ll take us through.” With a fluid motion, I slip the oars through the oarlocks and rest the blades and looms on opposite gunwales.
“Duck!” Dad yells, crouching over our little black dog. Gretchen yanks in her oars, and we all hunker down scarcely daring to breathe. We disappear into the shadow of the bridge. I gingerly reach up and let my hand drag across the smooth cement surface. We hear just the lapping of the tiny waves against the dinghy’s sides, and then a car rushes overhead, breaking the silence. We burst forth into the sunlight, having passed safely beneath the bridge.
At low tide only a trickle of water runs here. We sit up, gingerly massaging cramped shoulders. I flex my callused hands, and Gretchen and I dip our oars back into the water.
“Blue heron,” Mom whispers, and we look to the reeds where she points. The graceful bird stands alert on a granite rock rising out of the marshy backwater. As it hears the gentle slice of our oars, it lifts its long wings and slender legs and elegantly takes to the sky. The channel narrows; ahead of us lies the eel rut that we plan to navigate. “Do you see bottom?” I ask.
“No,” Mom replies. “Pull left.” I glance at the narrow opening in the bank. “Do you want to row, Gretch?” I ask. “If not, I will.”
“Go ahead and ship your oars,” she says merrily. I pull them one at a time out of the oarlocks and into the boat. Reeds wrap around the left oar, and Dad picks them off the dripping blade which rests at his feet. He teases the dog with the thin wet grasses.
I use the other long oar to test the depth of the water; it’s still a full three feet deep but already a thin brown line of mud appears where the reeds meet the water. The tide has turned. I turn to face forward while Gretchen rows, and I wonder as the marsh spreads out before us. How far, I ask myself, will this eel rut go?
“Pull left,” Mom says, “left again, Gretchen, hard left.” But the corner is too sharp, and the peapod gently drifts into the reed bank. I shove off, noticing the eel rut has narrowed more on this side of the bend.
“Pass me an oar, Katie,” Mom says, reaching toward me. “We can pole now.” I hand her the long oar while Gretchen ships her own oars and then uses one to push us along. Dad and I fend off the banks with our hands, and the peapod slips along the eel rut, which meanders through the marsh. The opening is invisible now, and we are lost among the reeds.
The water thins and grows shallower. The reedy banks press closer. We savor the stillness of the marsh and the magic of the eel rut. We are explorers, following the footsteps of Columbus and Magellan. We are awed and humbled by the unknown terrain and move slowly, softly, to further relish its beauty.
The reeds whistle as we push over them. Then at last the two banks join to form one, and we have reached the end. Now we have only to race the tide and beat it back to the low bridge at the harbor’s head. Our tentative movement into the marsh is offset by our hasty retreat. We burst forth from the eel rut and wildly cast our oars into the shallow water, warily glancing at the frothing white rush surrounding the low bridge. Gretchen and I row with a swift cadence. The current catches us, and we haul in the oars, frantically ducking as we sweep under the bridge. Spectators on the bridge applaud upon seeing us safely through.
We have returned victorious.
Katie is a freshman at Hobart and William Smith College in Geneva, N.Y., majoring in English and creative writing. Her sister, 16-year-old Gretchen, is a junior in high school. Gretchen’s first love is classical ballet. She’s a core dancer with the Maine State Ballet. Both sisters enjoy cruising with their friends and family on the coast of Maine.
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