Getting There

‘Why don’t you ask for directions from that man?’, Sonia suggested, her voice mixed with  excitement and frustration.

We had been driving around the Mount Desert Island when I had spontaneously decided to take a detour into a thin winding road close to the entrance of Acadia National Park.

It seemed like a good idea at that time as we travelled down the road, surrounded with lush greenery, Sonia and my hair blowing wildly in the wind flowing across the car windows. Kids were busy watching Jurassic Park 3, clutching on to their headsets to block the wind noise out of their universe they gazed at the ferocious T-Rex in the screen of the DVD player.

Once in a while we could spot log huts tucked deep into the woods, wisps of smoke spiraled out of the chimneys and faded into the twilight sky.  The smell of the wood smoke hung in the air for a long time before getting displaced by the misty fragrance of pine

.

‘I wonder what the guys who live in these houses do for a living?’, Sonia pondered aloud with a smile ‘ Must be writers or folks like that’, she continued ‘ How much I envy these people …’

‘So why don’t you become a Writer?’I joked.

‘If only it was that easy’, Sonia rolled her eyes in feigned protest ‘ I am sure I cannot be a writer  in this lifetime’, she said looking out of the window as we passed another log hut that was perched on a hill next to a lake.

Just then disaster stuck. The navigation system suddenly stopped working. The much familiar LCD screen showing the icon of our car winding down an orange road cutting through a tacky shade of bright green- went dark.  We did not have any other form of maps in the car. I slowed down as we travelled down the winding road in twilight.  The wind was getting chilly so I closed the sun roof and the windows.  The romantic woods were somehow magically transformed into a threatening forest conspiring to ambush us.

‘If we head towards north, we will eventually end up around the ocean – right?’ Sonia asked expectantly. We were in an Island – well almost, save that bridge that connected us to the mainland, so we would end up near the ocean irrespective of which way we were heading. But I did not want to point that out to Sonia as I glanced suspiciously around at the pine forests surrounding us.

We had arrived at Acadia National Park yesterday after a six hours drive from Boston.  The park was situated in an island which was scattered with pristine glacial lakes, spectacular mountains and granite cliffs plunging into the Atlantic Ocean.  We were living in a quaint B&B near Bar Harbor, the largest town in the island. Our host, a charming, garrulous lady in her mid forties had given us a warm welcome and a long overview of the Park’s history and tips on the culture of Maine.

‘Don’t laugh if you hear a Mainer say - You can’t get there from here’, she said with a smile. The old saying in Maine was apparently used in several settings, including providing directions. Many attributed this saying to the old roads in New England, several of which could trace their origins to ancient cow tracks. Destinations that seemed straight ahead in the road, often stood separated by valley or streams.

‘You can’t get there from here’ was an easier alternative to reconcile oneself with, as compared to laborious process of finding another road that goes around the valley or finding a bridge across the stream.  ‘You will be surprised if you know how many people actually believe in that sentence ‘, our host had said laughing. I found the concept amusing. I imagined entering a destination in my navigation system and getting a response ‘You can’t get there from here’ – flashing in bold red letters.  I had laughed aloud with her.

 ‘Why don’t you ask for directions from that man?’, Sonia’s voice rang through the car as she pointed at a man who was walking beside the road with a huge Labrador. I was not too fond of huge dogs. I was also not too fond of asking for directions - in fact I detested it. But today was different; I gulped my pride, put up a feigned smile and walked towards the elderly gentleman. 

‘Excuse me’, I asked politely, ‘We are a bit lost– can you tell us how to reach the Frenchman Bay from here?’

The man looked at me for a few seconds and replied in a thick Maine accent ‘You can’t get there from here’. I continued to look at the man with a smile ‘Nice sense of Humor’ I thought as I waited for his directions. But the man was apparently not joking; he gave me a polite nod and moved on as his huge Labrador yanked him away from me. 

I stared at the old man with a feeling of nervous excitement bubbling through me, as he walked away around the bend of the road. I had just witnessed a ‘You can’t get there from here’ event ! I forgot that I was lost in this desolate part of an island as I trotted back to the car and opened the door excitedly to see a smiling Sonia.‘You won’t believe what that guy said to me when I asked him for directions, I exclaimed flashing a huge smile.

‘And you won’t believe what I just did ‘she said pointing to our navigation system which was apparently working again! ‘I whacked it hard and it started working!’. The tacky green forest in the navigation system’s LCD screen had magically transformed the threatening forest back to friendly woods bathed in twilight mist.

Just around the bend of the road was a spectacular log hut nestled on a grassy patch next to a mountain stream. 

‘Another writer’, smiled Sonia. I smiled back at her and looked at the log hut, conjuring up images of the imaginary writer occupant, sitting in front of a warm mahogany table with quill in her hand, staring out of the window at the sun setting beyond the cliffs.  ‘I am sure I cannot be a writer in this lifetime’, Sonia’s words rang in my ears breaking my chain of thought.

‘By the way, what amusing thing did that man say to you?’, Sonia asked looking out of the window.

Ten Little Goldfish

Ten little goldfish scuttled around restlessly in their individual fish bowls as a pack of excited children stood around the table peering at them.

Each of the small fish bowls had a handful of gravel and ten colored pebbles. Ten packets of goldfish food lay neatly arranged next to the bowls.

‘That big one in mine’ squealed Peggy pointing at the biggest fish out of the lot.

‘I call that one’, Baljeet screamed, pointing to the next biggest one.

‘No that one is mine’, Rishi shouted over the din.

‘But it is your birthday’, Baljeet protested ‘ Birthday boys don’t get goody bags – they get all the gifts’

It was our son Rishi’s birthday party. Anita stood beside the excited children with an amused smile on her face. ‘Goody bags with candies and board games are so boring’, she had said yesterday evening as we scanned the toys aisle in Wal*Mart. Her eyes had lit up as she saw the small pet store just across the road from the mall. ‘How about we gift the kids goldfish?’ , she had suggested excitedly.

The gold fish “goody bags” had been the center of attraction in the party. They were more popular than the pool or even the Pokémon cake. Anita and I had to take turns to send the small, wet partygoers out of the dining room where the fishbowls lay neatly arranged on the dining table, back into the backyard swimming pool.

Finally it was time to go home with the new pets. The kids had not only managed to agreeably allocate the goldfishes among themselves , but each of them had a name as well. Rishi provided a small demonstration on how to feed the fish and cleanup the bowl and the guests were on their way, carefully holding their fish tanks even as they were strapped to their car seats.

‘I am glad that you guys did not pick up pups for party favor’, Rohit joked as his wife tried to convince their seven year old daughter Kavita to hand over her new pet - Maya. ‘Just for the car ride darling – you will spill the water and hurt Maya’ 

‘The kids surely liked their goody bags’, I joked as Anita and I sat in the backyard after the partygoers had left.

Rishi had also managed to get a goody bag for himself and was apparently more interested in Mr. Anderson, his new pet, than any of his birthday gifts.

                                                                  *****

‘Mr. Anderson is dead’, Rishi’s voice rang across the hallway. It was six am in the morning and I had to literally force myself to open my eyes. A teary Rishi stood next to the bed looking at me.’ The goldfish is dead’, he sobbed. Both Anita and I were still a bit disoriented, probably due to the physical exertion of yesterday’s birthday party.

Anita and I pulled ourselves out of the bed and followed him to his room where the golden fish floated in the fish bowl. The goldfish stirred slightly, as our hearts skipped a beat. It then went quiet and floated lifelessly in the water.

‘Don’t worry, we will get you another one’, I said reflexively, hoping to comfort my sobbing son. Anita looked serious. ‘What happened?’ I asked her.

‘What if other goldfish die as well ?’, she had a scared expression in her face ‘ All of them were from the same aquarium …’, she stared at me blankly. ‘We need to alert others’, she said grabbing the phone and walking down the stairway. ‘ But it is six o clock … on a Sunday morning…’, I protested weakly and followed her.

We called Rohit first and were greeted with the wail of crying Kavita. ‘Maya was dead’ she sobbed into the telephone. It was a goldfish apocalypse. They were dying, left right and center. ‘Don’t worry Sweety, we will get you another one’, Anita tried to comfort Kavita.

In the next two hours, several calls were made to the birthday party invitees. We were relieved that besides one more casualty, all the other goldfishes were alive.  We had already Googled for all the different reasons goldfishes could die and had asked the pet owners to take out the colored pebbles and change the water – in case the pebbles had some contamination.

‘ Hey sorry for the trouble’ , I giggled sheepishly as I gave instructions to a half sleepy Rohit. ‘Dude , I am going to gift you folks  a kitten AND a puppy as a party favor in Kavita’s next birthday’ , Rohit said yawning loudly as I narrated the instructions on how to take out the colored pebbles and change the water in the fish tank once we got them a replacement pet.

We were glad that the pet store opened on Sundays.We reached the store a little before 10 AM, when it was supposed to open. The owner was surprised to see the waiting customers as she opened the store. ‘It happens sometimes’, she tied to explain. ‘Goldfishes are sensitive to the quality of water – that is why we recommend proper aquariums for them – I can give you some recommendations….’ She continued as Anita jotted down notes. We were out of the store armed with three replacement goldfishes and a small aquarium for Rishi.

We drove to the two houses which had suffered the loss of their newly acquired pets and nervously offered the replacement pets much to the delight of the mourning pet owners. ‘You may consider buying this small aquarium. This store sells water filters cheaper than any other place in Massachusetts …’, Anita summarized her notes for the parents.

‘Well, I am happy that it is over … finally .., Anita yawned as we drove back towards home. Rishi was busy tapping the plastic water filled  bag that held the replacement Mr. Anderson.

‘I will call all the others and tell them to get a proper aquarium …’ she said almost dozing off.

                                                                *****

We were wrapping up our dinner when the phone rang. Usually we don’t pick up calls during dinner, but today was different. It could be another goldfish emergency. The caller ID showed that it was Rohit. I lifted the phone with trembling hands and put the call on the speaker phone.

It was Kavita. She was crying. My worst fears had come alive. I could almost imagine Rohit standing on our driveway with six pups and six kittens, ‘ I got them specially for you from the shelter …’, I could imagine him saying with a mischievous grin, almost in slow motion ‘ have fun dude !’

‘Raj Uncle, I have a bad news’, Kavita sobbed, ‘Maya got stuck in the filter pump of the new aquarium ... she is dead again…’, her voice boomed loudly across the kitchen into the dining room.

‘There is a reason why the birthday goody bags have board games and candies’, I thought silently as  I looked at Anita. 

'I have to call the pet store ! ', to my horror, Anita was up on her feet dialing her cell phone!

Twenty eight chairs and twelve bouquets - A Tribute to my friend Ivan

‘Mild, Medium or Hot’, the waiter asked as Ivan and I looked through the menu.

It was late afternoon and we had decided to try out an Indian restaurant for lunch. It was Tuesday – my vegetarian day and therefore I had declined Ivan’s first choice – an authentic Schezuan restaurant  that apparently was run by an opera singer from China.‘The owner is a known opera singer – and the food is hot – as it should be’, Ivan Shen said with what I used to tease him as his Chinese accent. 

We used to often have this fight on who had a more authentic accent – his Chinese or my Indo-British. Ivan had introduced me to Opera. Thanks to him, I had unlocked the magic of Pavarotti. We had spent time together mourning  a few years ago when Pavarotti had passed away.

Today was Indian lunch day.  The waiter was looking eagerly at Ivan for his response on how hot a Lamb Vindaloo he preferred.

‘How much hot can you get it?’, Ivan  asked the waiter with a straight face .

‘Do you know Vindaloo is synonymous with HOT in India’, I joked.

‘I know’, was his response ‘ But it is never hot enough – can you get it the hottest you can ever make it ?’ , Ivan asked the bewildered waiter.

When the dish was served , I could not help but take a small bite from Ivan’s  plate – in spite of the day being my vegetarian Tuesday. After all, Indians are renowned for their capacity to handle hot food. I took a small spoonful of the curry and had to wash it with two glasses of water.

Ivan ate the dish as if it was strawberry ice cream.

‘Hmm , Not bad. Could do with a little more hot’, he said as I continued to wash my mouth with cold iced water as I could almost feel my hair standing up on their roots due to the hot curry.

*******

‘This dish is called Macheer Jhol’, I explained to Ivan as we started dinner.

‘Here are some green chills’, my wife offered a bowl of fresh green chilies to Ivan. She had heard about the gastronomic exploits of my friend.

‘Nice and refreshing’, Ivan said biting into a couple of chilies.

I had always wondered why Ivan wore his hair so short.  His hair almost stood up on their ends. Today I was convinced that his hair must have decided to give Ivan a permanent standing ovation on his taste of hot food.

We had already finished off a couple of bottles of wine and my wife offered to drop him home after dinner. His apartment was close to home.

‘You know what … this car is a very popular model in Japan’, Ivan disclosed sitting in my wife’s car as we drove towards Nashua, ‘This is the most popular Taxi there’, he said laughing. He went ahead to narrate the details of the engine, body, variation of the transmission, shock absorbers and various other parts of the car. By the time we dropped him home, we were thoroughly educated on the internals of a Lexus IS-250-AWD.

‘Thanks for the taxi trip’, Ivan laughed’  I have a bottle of great Sochu , why don’t you guys come in and have a couple of shots’, He offered as we dropped him.

‘We will do it next time’

                                  *******

Twenty eight chairs and twelve bouquets adorned the room in the funeral service I sat in last Saturday.

My friend Ivan was lying in his coffin, surrounded by the bouquets as friends and family paid him last tributes. He had been diagnosed with advanced stage cancer and had succumbed on August 15^th after an aggressive treatment that lasted five short months.

‘Anybody else has anything to say about Ivan’, the funeral coordinator asked in a somber voice after the tributes had been made.

The Discovery

On a clear day, the passengers sitting in the left hand window seats  of an aircraft flying west from Boston, should be able to see the meandering Merrimack river soon after the take off.   Close to  a particularly big bend of the river, one should be also able to see  two distinct blue colored water tanks, on the opposite side  of a small lake.  

The two blue tanks, the river and the lake are so distinctly visible from the air, that they are used  as a marker by the local flight training schools teaching Ariel acrobatics. It seems it is impossible to lose sight of the tanks and the lake even when the planes do  twists and turns and stalls in the air.

We had been living in our house for more than two years, when my mother, who was visiting us from India, walked into the house after her morning walk, visibly excited . “Do you know there is a lake at the end of the cul-de-sac ?”

Amazing,  but true. That was the first time we came know that there is an access to the lake just six houses down the street! 

The access to the lake had been hidden by a white wooden gate that blended into the wooden fence of the property next to it.  A narrow path led up to the gate. The path was partly obscured because there was a hill right next to it. On the other side of the gate, another narrow path led down to the lake where it ended into a small wooden jetty. There was a narrow road around the lake that covered half of it’s perimeter, with some pretty houses scattered along it.

The “discovey” of the lake was followed by unlocking the heap of treasure it had to offer. We started by exploring the quiet path along the lake. The beautiful path was sheltered by trees with the quiet sound of rustling trees broken by an occasional cry of a blue jay or a goose.  

“Should we get a boat and explore the lake “ I asked my wife one day. Both of us had a fare share of experience of boating from our college days in India, so we quickly converged to an affirmative decision.

We initially bought a small yellow boat just to “test the waters” literally.  The boat was great for individual exploration but It was a bit small for two adults.  

We soon upgraded to a fishing boat. The new boat had wooden bottom offering a relatively stable ride with two small kids.  It had a battery driven trolling motor that facilitated quiet exploration without disturbing the fauna around the lake.

Beside the encounters with otters, snapping turtles, fishes and water birds, the lake offered spectacularly quiet moments. Drifting in the lake, far from all the shores with sun’s reflection on the water scattered like million tiny diamonds.

****

My  son and his friend J , who is our next door neighbor’s son, accompany me often to the lake. With them around it is more of a noisy exploration time. We playfully chase water birds away from an area we know a school of fish lives in. Get close to a snapping turtle basking in the morning sun until it sees us and jumps back into the lake.

   

“Dad , can we give J the old yellow boat ?”  asked my son one day.

“Why”

“We don’t use it anymore” it is just lying there in the basement” he replied, ” J  loves  boating and he will be able to go the lake if we are not around”

 “OK – but I will have to ask his mother if it is OK with her first”

So J got the yellow boat.  We also conducted a test run in the lake. Both J and my son were thrilled.

*****

Last summer, me and my son were exploring the marshy end of the lake when we noticed an opening  between the bushes we could just squeeze the boat through. We had not noticed this opening before. It had rained a lot this year and the level of water was higher than usual. This had perhaps opened up this new area within the lake which was otherwise inaccessible.

“I wonder what is on the other side “ , said my son excitedly.

As we navigated the boat through the bushes, we saw an opening  leading into a brook. It was a small stream that was about six feet wide, meandering it way into the lake.   

“Wow!  a Stream !! ” , exclaimed my son. “Lets explore ! we may discover something interesting ...“

The sun was about to set, and I was not up for an adventure. “ We will comeback again”, I said.

Just as I said those words, the small opening between the bushes exploded with action as the small yellow boat suddenly pushed it's way through .  J and his fifteen year old brother were furiously rowing the boat, their mother sitting with an amused smile.

“J , Look we have  a stream  to explore !” exclaimed my son, his eyes lighting up in excitement.

“Yes !!  let’s explore !”  exclaimed back J.

J’s mom and I exchanged amused glances and joined the noisy twilight exploration.

It was discovery time once again.

Spirits !

“Guys in the left hostel wing are calling spirits “, Harpreet stuck his head inside my hostel room and declared.

I dropped whatever I was doing and followed him. 

In the last year or so I had developed a curiosity about paranormal, reading several books and providing unsolicited summaries to Harpreet, the curiosity had almost assumed the stature of passion. 

My parents dismissed my newfound interest as an extension to my  teenage fascination of horror movies.  There was not a horror movie worth it’s salt that I  had not watched. Why, I had watched the ones that were even not worth their salt. In the last few years, I had transitioned from my fear of unknown to a curiosity about unknown.  I was particularly fascinated by Astral projection or out of the body experience.  Richard Bach, one of my favorite authors, had described his out of the body experiences vividly in one of his books. I used to often wonder how will it feel to float around the clouds, outside the body.

“Maybe spirits are similar entities, as felt by many during astral projection, but not anchored to a body“, I used to hypothesize to Harpreet, as we sat on the hostel terrace chatting late in the night.

We reached the room where the sprits were supposedly being summoned.  There was a tight knot of boys sitting in a darkened room , around a improvised Oujja card. They were all sitting on the floor. There was candle burning on the table, illuminating the room with it’s flickering light.

One of the guys was sitting with his eyes closed, his finger on a coin. The card had the English alphabets and numbers 0-9 written on it. There was also a “Yes” and a “No” written on either side of a circle in the center of the card. There was a coin in the circle.

Everyone’s gaze was fixed on the coin and the finger. Communicator with sprits believe that  sprits can be summoned this way. Once summoned, the sprits literally move the coin on letters and symbols to convey messages.

Sundar was driving the coin. He looked up at me and said “ I am not getting anything, why don’t you try?”

Sundar knew about my interest in paranormal. He and I had spent several hours discussing about Ouja and Planchett boards and the controversies around them. Somehow the enigma around the practice almost evoked more interest, however we could never  bring ourselves up to trying it out ourselves. I was surprised that Sundar had taken the next step today.

Talking to the boys, I  found out that this particular gathering was a result of a spontaneous wager between believers and non-believers. The stake was a high - hundred rupees that could fund a dinner and movie night for two.

The board looked exactly how it should be. I had no idea what to do, but I knew the theory of the drill. It was said that in presence of the spirits, the person driving the coin would feel that the coin is moving on it’s own. 

Coming to Sundar’s rescue, I took over his position and placed my finger on the coin. I sat cross legged and released my breathing focusing  between my forehead. Almost immediately I could feel that the coin was running away in one direction – as if being pulled by an invisible magnet. 

I opened my eyes and looked around the room. “ I could feel something guys”, I declared.

“Get your questions ready “

I knew that the first few conventional  questions were generally asking the spirit to identify itself and ask if it is willing to provide some answers.

The boys sitting in the room had two questions ready to be asked. They wrote down these questions and  the two skeptics held tightly on to the slip of the paper with the questions.

I started again. I could feel the coin move once more. In course of my study about planchett, I had not ruled out self hypnosis as one of the way this whole thing worked. Maybe an individual invokes his or her intuitive powers and therefore can answer questions correctly? Or is it something else. I still was not sure. “Well, we will see”, I thought and asked the questions, softly but audible to all.

“Are you willing to communicate” – the coin moved to Yes.

“Please identify yourself – are you a male or female?” – The coin moved to the letter F

“What is your age ?” – The coin moved to the numbers  1 and then 6.

I could hear some muffled laughter in the room as some of the boys thought I was joking about a sixteen year old girl spirit.

Then came the two questions.

“What is my grandmother’s birthday ?”, asked a person. The coin went through a series of movements around the number section of the card.

“What is my college enrolment number?” asked another. The coin went to - what I felt like a frenzied movement. I was finding it difficult to keep pace with the coin.

I could suddenly hear some commotion in the room and I opened my eyes.  All the boys except Sundar  and Harpreet had rushed out of the room. Sundar was chanting a mantra from religious scriptures supposed to help exorcise spirits.

I had no idea what just happened !

After a few minutes, Sundar  regained his composure and told me that the birthday and the nine digit enrolment number both were absolutely correct. The boys had got scared with the unexpected correct answers.

“How did you know these answers”, Harpreet asked me weakly. I was starting to feel a bit light headed.

“It is a bit stuffy in here, let’s go out to catch some tea “, I suggested.

The three of us walked to the tea shop that was across from hostel. The quiet road winded through the staff colony where the hostel administration staff lived.

“How did I know the answers?”, I wondered. I was almost sure now that this was a form of self hypnosis.

“Maybe those meditation sessions I do , have helped me open up some intuitive powers”, I said to the two boys walking next to me, as an explanation to what happened today.

As we passing by the staff colony, we heard some weeping sounds coming from one of the houses. There was a small crowd gathered near a gate. 

Curious , we walked and asked to one of the bystanders what happened.

“Their sixteen year old daughter passed away a few hours ago“

A chill shot up my spine as I looked at the horrified eyes of Sundar and Harpreet.

Mouth of Merrimack River

Sugi  is my boating buddy. We started exploring the water bodies in New England around the same time. We go out in the water together, often with our families.We had already explored the length and breadth of the Merrimack river north of the Lowell dam and several of lakes in the region, including Winnipesaukee.

Sugi had an inflatable speed boat, that complemented my canoe and  fishing boat. Between us we had the gear for a range of aquatic activities from quiet exploration to hydroplaning.We used to often moor our boats on one of the isolated sandy banks of the Merrimack river , watching the kids explore the soft sand, our beach chairs lodged in the sandy banks.

“ Do you think we should go out to the Ocean” , Sugi asked me one day.

Our experience with water bodies had been pleasant so far. So without much ado we decided to make out maiden ocean trip in the next weekend.  We had a week to decide on the location of our venture.

We opened up Google maps to identify the potential areas that were partially sheltered. After exploring a few options we agreed on what we felt at that time was a safe bet – Mouth of Merrimack River.

We had spent considerable time on the river in the last few years . Though we had not explored the section south of the Lowell dam, the river looked same in width and depth almost right up to Newburyport. The river expanded considerably after Newburyport, narrowing down to a few hundred feet before joining the Atlantic. The wide expanse of the river, just before it met the Atlantic, looked almost like a big lake in the map - and we were very comfortable exploring lakes ! 

“Why, we can hang around in this area and if the sea looks rough, we will just say here” , I suggested.

“What if we are thrown out to the ocean by a big swell or something?” , asked Sugi jokingly.

“ We will just crank up the throttle and keep on going  until we reach Europe”, I replied with a wink.  

 

We launched our boat from a ramp near the Salisbury beach , which is near the mouth of the river. The launch gave us access right to the board area of the river. We were a bit surprised to notice that there were no small boats except ours. As we were exploring the wide area, we were stopped by the Water Patrol. 

We were used to the drill, especially having frequented the lake Winnipesaukee several times.We had the registration papers, decals and registration numbers marked on the boat.The patrol officer checked the papers and gave us a funny look before turning his boat and heading back .  Sugi and I spent some time taking about the funny look. “He must not have seen Asian guys on a boat maybe ...” , was our conclusion. 

We were wrong. Later after that eventful day, we found out that the Mouth of the Merrimack was in fact one of the most dangerous inlets, capsizing several boats every year .  A combination of increase in the flow of water due to the river narrowing down, the tides,  and the mixing of the river and ocean water give rise to standing waves as high as twenty  foot high.  This is why that area was actively patrolled by the state water patrol.

I guess the officer in the patrol boat must be wondering “ Hmmm .. what are these guys doing in this dangerous section  of the river  ... in a dingy ..?” , and that is when the funny face would have materialized.

Sugi and I , after hovering around in the wide area for some time, gradually inched towards the mouth of the river in our twelve feet inflatable boat.  Good thing about inflatable boats is that they cannot sink. Even if they capsize, they float.

We slowly followed a big boat ahead of us.  We were trying to ride the waves by carefully accelerating and decelerating the boat, synchronizing it with the oncoming waves.  Suddenly  the waves died down and  we realized that we were at the mouth , looking at the vast expanse of the ocean.

“Were are there !” I exclaimed.

Sugi throttled up the boat , and just as the boat started hydroplaning at 20 miles an hour, a huge standing wave materialized from nowhere. The wave would be at least twelve feet high. Our boat went up through the top and was airborne - the propeller spinning in the air. The boat was also turning in the air at the same time.  After an eternal few seconds, the boat landed back in the water , but we had turned 180 degrees and were facing the way we had come from.

Without exchanging any words, we kept going after that accidental U turn and stopped only after we were back in the river, deep inside, back in the wide part of the river.

“Man we should not have gone there in a dingy ! ”, Sugi laughed,  finally breaking the silence as we hauled our boat into the trailer.

A couple of weeks later , I got an excited call from Sugi. “Just come over to my place” he said.

There, standing on his driveway was a twenty two feel long rigid inflatable boat.  The boat had a central console and two huge powerful motors.  This was like the boats used by the Coastguards for rescue missions.

 “Want to go back to the mouth of Merrimack?”, he asked with a wink.

We went there the next weekend. This time we were not stopped by the water patrol.

The Oak Tree

There is a large Oak tree punctuating the tree line that marks the starting of the wooded part of our backyard.

The large Oak tree, in the days of past, must have been one of many old oak trees , scattered around the woods lining the lake on the eastern side of our subdivision, waking up in the spring to the chatter of chipmunks, the calls of the blue jays, falcons and the flock of migrating loons that return to the marshes surrounding the lake.

The tree must have witnessed on one eventful spring, a fleet of bulldozers that came in and cleared out a part of the forest to make space for two score of scattered homes , one of them ours. The large Oak Tree that once nestled in the cozy comfort of the woods now cautiously guarded its border with the civilization.

The start of the tree line overlooks a sloping hill that rolls down to our grassy backyard. The view and shade from the tree line made it a perfect spot to place a hammock.

Out of the two trees that were selected for the hammock, one was a River Birch and other a young Oak tree adjacent to the large Oak tree. The large Oak tree would almost crane its neck and peep through the small tree as I glanced up through the hammock , its leaves rustling with a cautious and reserved countenance.

****

One of the summers, I started flying model airplanes. Back in India, I used to be a big fan of flying kites. Kite flying transcends passion in some cities in India. The skyline in these cities gets dotted with thousands of colored paper kites, bobbling and swaying in a colorful dance. Men, women, children line on the terraces and open spaces, almost possessed eyes gazing on the small dot connected to the other end of the string.

The red polyurethane aircraft modeled like an old biplane, was my kite today. The RF control my invisible string, as I fixed my gaze at the model biplane.

I could almost feel like the plane as I soared higher and higher .. over the house, over the treeline .. when suddenly a gust of wind blew the plane out of control. I tried desperately to steer it back but just as I adjusted the roll to steer clear of the trees, a large branch of the large Oak tree , swinging in the wind, plucked the plane out of the air.

It was not the first time my aircraft had got stuck. Our neighbors had spent a lot of bonding moments retrieving my planes from the top of their roofs. Most of the times, I stood with a home made contraption made with duck-taped sticks, on the top rung of the largest available ladder. Fishing for the plane as my and neighbor’s family provided directions .. “little bit left” and “little bit right” , kids clapping when the plane was finally retrieved.

What worried me today was that the last time my plane was stuck in a tree, I could not get it back. The plane remained suspended through the summer and winter. A mocking reminder as we could see the plane clearly amidst the tree line. I checked every day from the windows overlooking the backyard, hoping that the plane will rescued from its prison by a gust of wind one day.

The plane’s dilapidated carcass was finally handed over by the tree during a blizzard almost after a year. That tree was only half the size of the Oak tree that had claimed my biplane today. The plane was lodged in one of the topmost branches which was impossible to reach.

****

As I stood below the Oak tree , I noticed for the first time, how big it really was. Looking at the number acorns scattered near it’s perimeter, it was clearly in it’s prime. The red biplane swayed far above.

My son and daughter who are my co-pilots , arrived on the crash site and longingly looked up.

“It is stuck” , said my son “ One more plane gone”.

“We can still get it” , I said.

“How ?” asked both of them.

“Just ask the tree to return it”, I said smiling.

My son walked up the tree and touching the bark, said something to the effect “Mr. Oak tree can you please return the plane ?”

It was getting late; we got back into the house for dinner.Me and my wife took a quiet stroll along the woods after dinner. Since the sun sets late in summer in this part of the world, there was still quite a bit of light. I remember that the air was calm and there was no wind. Near the trunk of the Oak tree, lying on the ground was the red bi-plane.

“Thanks Mr. Oak tree ”, I thought as I picked it up and ran towards the house to share the news with my kids as my wife watched me with amusement.

The Oak tree has never been cautious and reserved since then.