Alice on the River
It was a simple enough request: Alice, run this postcard over and drop it in the mail box. I pulled the car over; Alice jumped out, and ran across sleepy Broadway in downtown Tivoli. It was around 10 on a Friday morning. We were off to kayak on the river, a first outing for her, both in a kayak and on the Hudson. She turned, looked right instead of left to cross the street—Alice has been studying in London for the past two years—and stepped in front of an oncoming pick up truck. I will ruin the suspense by saying she’s fine. The pick up wasn’t that close, wasn’t moving that fast. Alice sprinted across the street—she’s young and agile. But I will say that, four days later, I’m still shaken.
Alice is my niece, my only niece. She’s twenty years old, a beautiful young woman who loves her friends and family, is completely bilingual (French-English), is first in her law class at King’s College, shops too actively, plays a wicked game of O Hell, and for the past week of vacation had been calling me “la Suse,” and singing “Delta Dawn, what’s that flower you have on?” (go on, listen to it!) inspired from watching reruns of Friends. That moment on the street reminded me how fragile all of this is, and it was with this keen awareness that we made our way toward the river.
It was a sunny day, with a bit of breeze. The tide was going out. The river, a half mile wide at this point, felt enormous. The Catskill Mountains on the far shore looked hazy and far away. I sensed Alice a bit nervous about this adventure. We put the boats in the water, and I straddled hers, steadying it as she slipped in with flexible ease, reminding me she spent years perfecting gymnastic moves. I explained how to hold her paddles, to keep her elbows low, to press her knees against the pads to steady her boat and to help guide it through the water. Most of these moves come naturally to someone in a boat, but a few pointers make for an easier paddle.
I have taken many people onto the river. I consider it one of the most beautiful things to do in a beautiful area. Being on the river, low in a boat, paddlers experience things they would not if they stayed on shore: the great blue heron taking flight, it’s long legs trailing behind its massive wings; the slap of a fish leaping from the water; the musky smell of river water. On the water, the sky expands, as if you can see to infinity. There’s hope on the river, and plenty of room to drift and dream.
Still, I’m always a bit tenuous taking out new paddlers, but this time I was silently cataloging all of the many things that might go wrong. “We’ll stay near the shoreline and head south,” I said. In this section of the river, the channel used by the large freight boats and barges run close to the eastern shore. I wanted to stay far clear of them. But truth was, it was an empty river, not a boat in sight. We shoved south, with the wind at our back pushing us along.
“Are you ok?” I asked, once we had settled into our journey.
“I’m worried about going over,” Alice said.
“Don’t, you’ll fall out of your boat and the life vest will pop you to the surface,” I explained.
“I won’t get stuck?”
I remembered my own worry when I first started paddling. What if I went over, and couldn’t extract myself from my boat? So I spent a lot of time ensuring I did not go over. And then I took a terrific paddling class with Atlantic Kayak Tours during which we were required to dump. This is like asking a rock climber to fall. I took a big breath, rocked back and forth, and fell into the water. The body knows how to survive. I reached for the toggle of the spray skirt, pulled, dropped out of my boat and was back to the surface in seconds. I can’t say it was fun, but I knew that I could survive going over. The fear of not knowing was over and I paddled with a new confidence.
As we approached the underpass to the North Tivoli Bay, I could see the outgoing current running strong.
“OK, let’s set up to make it under the bridge,” I said. We pointed into the current, paddled strong. But the current grabbed the bow of Alice’s boat and pushed her to the side, into me, into the supporting wall.
“Let’s try again,” I said, as we floated back out with the current. “Really lean into the right side of your boat, push with your knee,” I coached.
Alice took off, all determination, leaning, stroking.
I cheered as she floated into the serene wide bay.
Arriving in the bay is like turning off a switch, cutting off both wind and current. Alice settled into the seat of the kayak and smiled. We meandered through the spatterdock, emerging with the outgoing tide, through the cattails and the phragmites. I noted that a beaver lodge had been dismantled (by whom?), and we saw a snapping turtle sunning on a log. It slid into the water as we approached. I heard marsh wren, swamp sparrows, hundreds of red winged black birds.
“You want me to tell you what the birds are?” I asked.
“No,” she said and I smiled.
We wound our way home, passing two young women working for the DEC. They wore waders, and wide-brimmed hats.
“We caught a pumpkinseed,” the one reported, smiling.
I stroked over and admired the fish. “Come look, Alice,” I called.
“I can’t turn,” she called back cheerfully.
Our return was peaceful under a full noon sun. Alice took the lead as I daydreamed, my worries calmed by Alice’s strength on the water. There are dangers to kayaking on the Hudson but most of those dangers can be avoided. And the pleasures, like the sky, are infinite. We loaded our boats, a bit hungry but happy.
“That was fun,” Alice proclaimed, “if a bit scary.”
The only thing that went wrong on our paddle is the next day Alice when reported sore shoulders.