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Splish Splash!
From pampered dog paddlers to siblings circling an island, cottagers share their swim rituals
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When my brother, Jay, was about six, in the 1950s, he started asking
our parents if he could drive our 9.9-hp wooden boat alone on Kasshabog
Lake, in the Kawarthas. My father, a land surveyor with a good sense of
distance, came up with a challenge for us both: He determined that
swimming 14 times around a tiny island just off our cottage would be
the (safer) equivalent of swimming the half-kilometre across our bay;
once we could “swim the bay,” he told us, we would be allowed to drive
the boat by ourselves. He knew (as we did not until much later) that by
the time we’d developed the physical stamina to cover the mileage, we’d
also be mature enough for the responsibility of the boat.
We started training right away. At first, one parent
or the other would be beside us every stroke of the way,
to keep an eye on us and check that we didn’t put
our feet down in the shallows around the island. In time,
we were allowed to circumnavigate the island alone, with
someone watching from the dock. By age eight, my brother
was able to make it 14 times around and was handed the
keys to the boat. I, an envious two years younger, was
nine before I earned the right.
Every year thereafter, we had to swim the required distance
to prove we could do it again before we could drive whatever
new higher-horsepowered craft we’d acquired. But
a funny thing happened after all those summers of practising
our laps around the little island. Most hot days would
find us in the water, swimming the bay, while the parentally
licensed and much-sought-after boat remained tied to
the dock.
—Cathy Cramer
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Buddy, our seven-year-old vizsla, is a real little waterbaby who will
swim and fish for hours off the dock at our cottage on Loughborough
Lake, north of Kingston. He often looks up at us to make sure we are
watching him and, if we aren’t, he squeaks until we do. When he’s
finally called out of the water, he expects to be wrapped in a towel,
warmed by the sun. On days that are a bit cool or cloudy, I confess my
wife and I have been known to heat his towel in the dryer for a couple
of minutes. Our place is appropriately named “Buddy’s Resort.”
—Doug Redden
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The sky was cloudy on that July 4, 1997. I woke and realized that, at
age 13, time was running out for me to conquer my fear of swimming
across small but significant Gull Lake, where we cottage in Manitoba. I
told my pa and my cottage chum Benjamin Turner that I was ready to step
into manhood. I strapped on my trusty Speedy goggles and my green Ocean
Pacific bathing suit, and trudged into the murky depths. My father and
Ben were not far behind, setting out in our canoe.
I didn’t know what was going to be ahead. As my
bulging muscles ripped through the ferocious waves, I
became weary. Singing campfire songs like “Peel
Banana” helped to pass the time. I began to worry
about things that could happen to me as I crossed the
depths: Would my legs get caught in the weeds? Would
the fish become more ferocious? Would lightning strike
me? I can tell you the waters were angry on that sultry
day of desire, my friends. At last, I made it to the
other side and a cheer roared through the air. I, of
course, flexed my biceps and made my firm pectorals dance,
as two girls on the beach giggled with glee. Meanwhile,
Father was having trouble turning the canoe; it capsized,
plunging him and Ben into the freezing water. “Help!” they
shouted. Unfortunately, I was already on the way back.
They quickly righted the canoe and caught up. Finally,
my triumphant quest was over – I, Ben Maciorowski,
had swum Gull Lake both ways. My reward for this long
journey? Half a glass of Budweiser ale with my dear old
dad.
—Ben Maciorowski
PS The unabridged version of Ben’s
Gull Lake swim appeared in his junior high school yearbook.
PPS The crossing, both ways, is just under two kilometres.
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*Published in the June
2006 issue of Cottage
Life magazine.
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