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ellyssian"For know you, that your gold and marble city of wonder is only the sum of what you have seen and loved in youth."
Funny, sometimes, how much importance is placed on destinations - places to go, places to be; things to see, things to do. Funny, really, how sometimes the journey itself is what proves memorable so many years later, the destination half-remembered at best, lost beyond even the trivial realm, where all the random useless facts live out their random useless lives.
The destination was one of the islands in Boston Harbor. I distantly remember possibly having the names of trees spoken and forgotten, the intriguing archaeological ruins - in all other cases, perhaps, something very important to me - seen, but of all the stones I can recall but distant impressions. A hazy wall or a remnant of a foundation is all that I have of the destination.
The trip was a Cub Scout one, and was made possible by the father of a classmate purchasing a 20-something foot cabin cruiser. I don't really remember how many people went on the trip, but it was a small group, and - I think - of a nearly equal number of kids and dads. Maybe one or two more of the former.
We set out from the Watertown Yacht Club - which may or may not be the actual name of the only "marina" on the Watertown banks of the Charles (I'm sure the one on the opposite side of the river is considered part of Newton. Maybe.)
I remember the way the water churned behind the boat - the many colors of the Charles, thoughtfully added by a variety of companies, towns, and cities and since restricted and regulated, at least somewhat. I saw familiar bits of landscape - the MDC park we often played at, Harvard, the bike trails I rode (at that age, probably only in company of my father), and MIT. MIT was, of course, my realm - well, my dad's, but I had adopted it as mine, and could travel across vast areas of the campus using only basements and sub-basements, and sometimes even deeper places where few delved. MIT will always be the pivotal point for me, and the rest of Cambridge and even Boston itself revolve around it.
I saw places where various dads pointed out having seen MDC patrol boats hiding, waiting for NO WAKE violators to roar by. I read a lot of PT-109/WWII patrol boat history and fiction, so I pictured a very exciting chase, ending with tell-tale signs of torpedoes tracking down the offenders (and leaving very little wake in the process, at least, right up until detonation, but that wake couldn't be helped.) Boys being boys, we discussed such things and discussed how they could best be implemented.
We went through the lock by the Science Museum, and, soon, out into the harbor itself. For days or weeks - or, to be perfectly honest, up to and including the present moment - I could close my eyes and still feel the boat moving underneath me, despite being plied with motion-sickness pills. If anything, the motion-sickness exists now, as a desire to feel the deck rolling underfoot, to see the waves rise around me. In or after high school, I finally identified my bouts of "motion-sickness" as a child of having more to do with cold orange juice consumed first thing in the morning prior to a trip than of any actual motion-related activities.
We approached several islands, and were waved off or warned off by signage. Finally, we decided to beach on a particular island, as it seemed no docks would have us - or we couldn't find the ones that would.
Of course, all of us kids were convinced this would turn out just like Gilligan's Island - the picture of the Minnow on the tropical beach was just too similar to what the cabin cruiser looked like, once we got up onto the beach. Once we were carried onto the beach. Handed, really. A line of dads standing somewhere between waist and ankle deep, passing Cub Scouts along to dry land. Kind of took some fun out of hopping ashore and wading in like they did in all those WWII beach assault movies, but we relented. And, as we headed to the aforementioned, since-forgotten Destination, we looked back, not a one of us (under the age of 20, to be safe) thought the boat would be there when we came back.
The boat was, of course, still there when we got back, and we did not have to swim the harbor, or starve to death so many miles (perhaps one or two, tops) from civilization.
On the way out, we could move around the boat, but on the way back, we were confined to quarters. Most of the dads were, as well. Big storm. And the tiny ship was tossed. If not for the courage of two dads - the boat-owner and mine - we would have been lost.
I dimly recall other kids questioning their dad's manhood, and the dad's freely admitting to hunkering down, safe, warm, and dry.
But my dad stayed topside, helping steer. Helping navigate. Making sure we didn't hit anybody and they didn't hit us.
And once in the inner harbor, the only waves the wake of our boat, my dad came in, soaked despite the yellow Gorton's fisherman-style slicker to rest a bit.
And we watched the city and the colleges and the parks glide by as we sailed up the Charles, discussing MDC torpedo boats and mighty waves, and we went home, tired and worn out after a long day, and went to bed only to close our eyes and feel the deck roll beneath us.
But everyone remembered that it was my dad that brought us in safely.
"It is the glory of Boston's hillside roofs and western windows aflame with sunset, of the flower-fragrant Common and the great dome on the hill and the tangle of gables and chimneys in the violet valley where the many-bridged Charles flows drowsily."
H.P. Lovecraft - The Dreamquest of Unknown Kadath
Funny, sometimes, how much importance is placed on destinations - places to go, places to be; things to see, things to do. Funny, really, how sometimes the journey itself is what proves memorable so many years later, the destination half-remembered at best, lost beyond even the trivial realm, where all the random useless facts live out their random useless lives.
The destination was one of the islands in Boston Harbor. I distantly remember possibly having the names of trees spoken and forgotten, the intriguing archaeological ruins - in all other cases, perhaps, something very important to me - seen, but of all the stones I can recall but distant impressions. A hazy wall or a remnant of a foundation is all that I have of the destination.
The trip was a Cub Scout one, and was made possible by the father of a classmate purchasing a 20-something foot cabin cruiser. I don't really remember how many people went on the trip, but it was a small group, and - I think - of a nearly equal number of kids and dads. Maybe one or two more of the former.
We set out from the Watertown Yacht Club - which may or may not be the actual name of the only "marina" on the Watertown banks of the Charles (I'm sure the one on the opposite side of the river is considered part of Newton. Maybe.)
I remember the way the water churned behind the boat - the many colors of the Charles, thoughtfully added by a variety of companies, towns, and cities and since restricted and regulated, at least somewhat. I saw familiar bits of landscape - the MDC park we often played at, Harvard, the bike trails I rode (at that age, probably only in company of my father), and MIT. MIT was, of course, my realm - well, my dad's, but I had adopted it as mine, and could travel across vast areas of the campus using only basements and sub-basements, and sometimes even deeper places where few delved. MIT will always be the pivotal point for me, and the rest of Cambridge and even Boston itself revolve around it.
I saw places where various dads pointed out having seen MDC patrol boats hiding, waiting for NO WAKE violators to roar by. I read a lot of PT-109/WWII patrol boat history and fiction, so I pictured a very exciting chase, ending with tell-tale signs of torpedoes tracking down the offenders (and leaving very little wake in the process, at least, right up until detonation, but that wake couldn't be helped.) Boys being boys, we discussed such things and discussed how they could best be implemented.
We went through the lock by the Science Museum, and, soon, out into the harbor itself. For days or weeks - or, to be perfectly honest, up to and including the present moment - I could close my eyes and still feel the boat moving underneath me, despite being plied with motion-sickness pills. If anything, the motion-sickness exists now, as a desire to feel the deck rolling underfoot, to see the waves rise around me. In or after high school, I finally identified my bouts of "motion-sickness" as a child of having more to do with cold orange juice consumed first thing in the morning prior to a trip than of any actual motion-related activities.
We approached several islands, and were waved off or warned off by signage. Finally, we decided to beach on a particular island, as it seemed no docks would have us - or we couldn't find the ones that would.
Of course, all of us kids were convinced this would turn out just like Gilligan's Island - the picture of the Minnow on the tropical beach was just too similar to what the cabin cruiser looked like, once we got up onto the beach. Once we were carried onto the beach. Handed, really. A line of dads standing somewhere between waist and ankle deep, passing Cub Scouts along to dry land. Kind of took some fun out of hopping ashore and wading in like they did in all those WWII beach assault movies, but we relented. And, as we headed to the aforementioned, since-forgotten Destination, we looked back, not a one of us (under the age of 20, to be safe) thought the boat would be there when we came back.
The boat was, of course, still there when we got back, and we did not have to swim the harbor, or starve to death so many miles (perhaps one or two, tops) from civilization.
On the way out, we could move around the boat, but on the way back, we were confined to quarters. Most of the dads were, as well. Big storm. And the tiny ship was tossed. If not for the courage of two dads - the boat-owner and mine - we would have been lost.
I dimly recall other kids questioning their dad's manhood, and the dad's freely admitting to hunkering down, safe, warm, and dry.
But my dad stayed topside, helping steer. Helping navigate. Making sure we didn't hit anybody and they didn't hit us.
And once in the inner harbor, the only waves the wake of our boat, my dad came in, soaked despite the yellow Gorton's fisherman-style slicker to rest a bit.
And we watched the city and the colleges and the parks glide by as we sailed up the Charles, discussing MDC torpedo boats and mighty waves, and we went home, tired and worn out after a long day, and went to bed only to close our eyes and feel the deck roll beneath us.
But everyone remembered that it was my dad that brought us in safely.
"It is the glory of Boston's hillside roofs and western windows aflame with sunset, of the flower-fragrant Common and the great dome on the hill and the tangle of gables and chimneys in the violet valley where the many-bridged Charles flows drowsily."
H.P. Lovecraft - The Dreamquest of Unknown Kadath
