A tale of two paddles

[bob budd]

Perhaps "Lazy River" and "Meaty Beaty Big and Bouncy"

Saturday dawned a cool and sunny day. Though we had several sweaty days last week in Ohio the worst of the summer heat had had its day. For something completely different we took a canoe out of the Newton boathouse.

The swans are grouped into five or so juveniles that have more or less claimed the waters just out of sight to the next bend down river. They were in various shades of white and grey as they reached full maturity, each sleeping with that peculiar back foot out of the water and their long necks draped along their backs.

The Charles opens up here, though marshy at the edges there is a sizable island to choose sides on. Heading downriver we chose left and retraced the banks from where Ryan and I must have peered while following Dee on the “run”. There were quite a few boats out, we were never alone at any of the turns, and most of them were canoes.

In days of yore the canoes would fill the waters here, nearly gunnel to gunnel, and there bands playing from a bandstand on a now overgrown island a bit further up. There is a pier at the watch factory where they would disembark and dance at the club. Once conjures two parasols poking out of the center while their suitors toiled easily at either end.

It would appear that Waltham maintains a long path along the river terminating across the river from the condos where Grover Cronin once stood. One of the well maintained docks served to simplify our swapping of positions in the boat.

The route back found us more than once checking out one of the coves along the way. Eschewing an early exit, we continued up river past the boathouse and passed under the noisy bridges of Rtes 90 and 128. Once the relative quiet returned, the golf course eventually emerged to our right.

My past canoeing years were as a teen with ample endurance where joint strain applied to certain extracurricular activities. Boat handling meant brute force and higher cadence, foregoing all subtlety. My kayaking experience has not come as a teen, lets just say. I was intrigued how much easier it was to move the boat with subtle nuances of paddle and body.

Sunday dawned more dubious. Upon reaching Greasy Pole we found two awaiting our somewhat belated arrival. One a boat of puzzle pieces, the other recently acquired and formerly seen on Mystic Lake.

The southeasterlies had built a modest array of waves as we head out across the harbour. A few years ago Bob Burnett had introduced me to “gunkholing” and though I was drawn to the shores we placed our destination more or less directly ahead of us. As has been the case this summer, the traffic was light and impeded our progress none at all.

Norman’s Woe provided little to play in and we passed by heading along the coast toward Magnolia. A leaking hatch (not in a Diamante) required attention. Some interesting breeches in the rocks here. Nature called us to the beach where we chose to take lunch.

Returning to the sea the waves had grown. We initiated and swapped a rafted tow in the rolling surf for a bit of practice. Though Kettle Island beckoned we returned along the coast as the falling temperatures, beginnings of rain, and summer acclimation found us all on the verge of a chill.