Cottage Daze by James Ross

Author:James Ross
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Dundurn
Published: 2012-03-29T04:00:00+00:00

Who Has Seen the Wind?

Who has seen the wind?

Neither I nor you:

But when the leaves hang trembling,

The wind is passing through.

— Christina Rossetti, “Who Has Seen the Wind?”

Nothing in nature is ever exact, but it is not at all unusual for the wind on our lake to rise about ten each morning, and then die out in the late afternoon. Today it is different. It has remained still through the first half of the day, allowing the kids to get out water-skiing on a lake as calm as glass. In mid-afternoon the wind stirs up and begins to blow, whipping the water into a frenzy.

I run down to the dock to turn the boat around, so that the bow is facing out into the lake and into the wind. I tie it on the leeside so that it won’t get knocked against the dock stringers, but is held away. The flags flap noisily on their pole. The wind creaks the dock, flutters the leaves, and whistles across the water and through the boathouse. It bends the tall pines, shakes the boughs, and slaps the water violently against the shore.

We secure everything that might topple off the island, except ourselves, and then settle on the dock to enjoy the blow. Any flies or mosquitoes that might have been bugging us earlier have been blown north, tumbling head over legs off to the mainland. Seagulls, who don’t frequent our island, seem to love a blustery day. They circle above, screeching and soaring high on the air currents before diving like fighter jets. Two ravens sit on a branch overhead watching the antics of the gulls. They huddle together, shifting the grip of their feet while letting the wind rustle their head feathers.

Sailors have always loved and depended on the wind. On a day like today we might see a Hobie Cat, sailboarder, or small sailboat hiked out and cutting through the surf. The local bush pilot likes the waves that the wind brings, giving texture to his runway, making it easier to land.

When we were young canoeists, we used to hate the strong headwinds that seemed to always greet us on the last day of our trips, testing our mettle as we pulled hard for home. I remember one trip when my brother and I decided to wait out the wind and rollers that assailed us on our last day, on the seven-kilometre paddle up the main lake to the cottage. We pulled off to shore and fished and slept and read until darkness fell, until the wind finally deadened and gave the lake a few hours’ peace.

We left at dark, paddling up the calm waters under a brilliant canopy of stars. We passed Gull Island, where the seagulls, startled awake, circled the rocky knoll, their white bodies caught in the moonlight, cackling at us for our intrusion. We pulled up to the dock at midnight and watched the mist rising from the water, the last heat in the surface being pushed into the air and swirling there in macabre patterns.

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