Hold On Tight
Floating alone with my life preserver in the middle of rippling black water, I feel the whole world slow down. I push wet hair out of my eyes and watch the scene in front of me as if through a TV screen. The sound of the boat’s engine and the touch of the waves slapping against my face fade away, and I’m left with only visuals.
Simon, Ethan, and Houston laugh to each other, white toothy smiles wide across their soaked faces. As he grips the handle of his tube, Houston reaches his free hand into the warm water of Jones’s Pond, causing a spray to hit Simon in the face. Next to Houston on the same tube, Ethan sits on his knees, both hands in the air. Covering his eyes, Simon lies belly down on our tube with his long legs dragging in the water. The space next to him is empty and waiting for me to fill it again. My dad looks back at them, one hand on the steering wheel, one hand in a fist held high, celebrating his success at finally getting me to wipe out.
I try to hold this moment before the boat returns with my friends and brother in tow. As I float alone, gently kicking my legs deep beneath me, I get a familiar sinking feeling in my gut. I’m frightened, not of the dark water or what lies beneath my dangling feet, but of losing these moments in my life as I am pulled unwillingly on, into adulthood.
Each summer, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and every other chance my family gets, we drive up to the small lobster fishing village where my dad grew up and where my mom spent her summers. All of the people I love most live within a stone’s throw of our modest, shingled house on Ocean Heights Road. My dad’s sister lives two houses down, my godparents live across the street, my lifelong friend Ethan right next to them, my best friend Simon right behind Ethan, and my dad’s parents just down the road.
With each vacation and year that passes, I lose a bit more of my grip on my childhood in Winter Harbor, Maine. I fear that one day soon I will no longer be a kid here. This fear is not like a fear of heights or spiders or monsters. It is a creeping fear; a fear that follows me wherever I go. It is a fear that I feel when I am lying in bed the night before an Exeter school day, and it is a fear pulling at me when I am in Winter Harbor in those perfect moments–like setting Simon’s dad’s entire nine-acre field on fire, or tearing down a side street, blowing holes in stop signs with buckshot, and laughing so hard I can’t catch my breath. It is a fear that soon will come to fruition as my high school days rapidly wind down.
I watch how my parents and their childhood friends enjoy Winter Harbor. My dad and Simon’s dad, who have been best friends their whole lives, only see each other a couple times a week when we visit. They head to the Pickled Wrinkle Pub, shoot pool, and talk about all the fun they had as kids. They no longer spend every waking minute of every day together like they did as kids, like we do now. I know deep down, at some point, my life in Winter Harbor will be like my dad’s. Simon, Ethan, Houston, and I will not sit in our playroom on rainy days with our four TV’s and four Xboxes, arguing with each other as we play two-vs-two Call of Duty. We will not sleep in our two sets of bunk beds every single night. Simon and I will not wake up at 5:30 am to mow fairways and roll greens at the Grindstone Neck Golf Course. Being seventeen, I am barely holding onto the last strands of my childhood in Winter Harbor. Some of my favorite aspects of Winter Harbor are already behind me. The things we could only enjoy as young kids are forever in the past. Flashlight tag, Nerf wars, and bike rides no longer hold the same magic.
The four of us would tear down Main Street on our mountain bikes every day of summer. Our thighs burned, our backs ached, and our hair whipped in the damp July air. I would lead the single file line down the hill, past Katie’s house, Chase’s restaurant, and Simon’s driveway. The sun beat down on our bleached hair and outstretched arms. At the bottom of the hill, we coasted in a leaning arc across the street to the opposite sidewalk. To our left, the rippling ocean reflected matte white clouds and a brilliant blue sky. The southern wind skipping off the cool water provided relief for our sweat-soaked backs. In the distance, the lobster boats headed in from a day of hauling. We fought to pedal uphill to Gerrish’s Café with Simon always trailing behind, his long legs scrunched on a bike he’d outgrown. At the top of the hill, we would cross the street, squeeze our wide bike tires into the small bike rack, and walk up the wheelchair ramp to get our well-deserved ice cream.
Now, as I motor down Main Street in my Jeep, Simon in the passenger seat and Ethan and Houston behind us, I can still trace our old bike route. However, there is no longer the humming of the bike tires or the squeaking of the brakes. There is no longer the smell of the ocean or the brushing of the wind. As I am dragged into adulthood, the simplest activities are the ones I fear losing the most. I will always love Winter Harbor and everything associated with it, but late at night when I think of my childhood there, I am stunned by the panic I feel knowing that one day it will not be the same. Until that day, I’m holding onto the seconds I might have left.
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Cane across my lap, I sit on the weathered bench by the town dock. Each of the few days every year that I am able to make it up to Winter Harbor, I walk down to this bench. This day, a sheet of gray covers the blue sky and darkens the rough water. The harbor I knew as a young boy is unrecognizable. Downeast tour boats and Bar Harbor ferries fill the moorings where the fishermen used to tie their lobster boats. Hundreds of lobster buoys, each color scheme unique to its owner, no longer dot the water. The long, wooden dock where Simon, Ethan, Houston, and I fished for mackerel and dove off is decorated with “no swimming” and “no fishing” signs.
“Or remember the time when we drove the Jeep around Acadia drenching people with Super Soakers guns?” Simon’s voice is raspy. He sits to my left. Having shrunk a couple inches in the past few years, he doesn’t tower over me anymore.
“Of course I do,” I answer with a shaky laugh. “And Ethan almost cried when the cop pulled him out of the back seat.”
Whenever Simon and I spend time together, we ask each other these “do you remember” questions. The answer is always yes. The memories are always vivid. Almost in my eighties, I have forgotten so much, but Winter Harbor remains a clear blue day in my mind full of gray. Like a video, I play these memories over in my head before I sleep, and I hold onto them this way. They are the moments that as a boy I feared would become nothing but memories, but as an old man, offer me the comfort of a life well lived.
Kerr Heidinger is a junior at Phillips Exeter Academy. This essay is published here with his permission.
Like most of the pictures on ParentsAssociation.com, the picture posted with this article is courtesy of a free download from Pixabay.com.
Growing Up