....13, 14, 15, switch sides. I swung the paddle over to my left side, and began pulling again. 1, 2, 3,....Dig, pull, angle away. The bow of the canoe started to go to the right ever so slightly, than straightend up and eased to the left just a tad. "Feathering" the paddle, as my father would say, was the key. His voice still sounded in my head. Deep, heavily accented, no nonsense, " I pull 15 times to right, then 15 to left. I never change unless something goes "bad wrong." He continued, "15 times is not "chisled in stone." Whatever works for you, could be 6 or even 3 each side."
Of course, being 12 years old at the time and completely "in awe" of my Dad, I chose to use 15 per side also.
The head wind caught the bow of my canoe, and moved it sideways. I quickly checked the movement and resumed my course. He was still in my head. "Make that boat go where you want it to go. Make every stroke count for something. Pull and guide the boat, with the same paddle stroke." I flashed back to summer, two years ago. My father had handed me the paddle. "Now boy, go back to the dock." I pulled over and over, with all my strenght, and only succeeded in going around in circles.
He didn't let me suffer very long. Taking the paddle, he said, "Now watch me closely." The canoe straightened right up and headed straight for the dock, as if by magic. "Son," he began, "All the power in the world won't do you any good, unless you know how to use it."
I watched his every move when we were on the river. Gradually, I picked up the technique and became a fair hand. My father was poetry in motion, afloat, a " real" waterman. Proficient even, until his death, at 88 years.
Making good time against the slight wind and sluggish current, I was soon closing in on the "haunted shore." As I rounded a sharp bend in the river, the tall, pale figures came into view. Begining 75 feet from the main water course, they stood perfectly still, glowing faintly by the light of the sickle moon. Row after row of the ghostly regiment extended up the sloping riverbank and faded away over the rise.
I continued paddling up-river, careful to remain in the center of the channel, until I reached the far left flank of the column. I stopped paddling then, and allowed the current to move me backwards. Narrowing my eyes, I turned to face the ranks of the white army. They appeared to move slowly and follow my progress downstream. I became oblivious to everything else, concentrating only on the weird scene before me.
On the very fringes of my consciousness, barely perceptable, very faint, I could hear a soft voice calling. "Stop, where are you going? Come back. Comeback. Stop..Come...back......"
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