Chapter 1: The August Regatta
Claire, a scholarship-dependent varsity swimmer, falls in love with her TA, Michael. She’s attracted to his kindness and wealth but repelled by his entitlement when he pushes her to compete in the annual regatta at Point-Au-Baril. She vows to remain independent of him.
The August Regatta
Claire stood on the granite outcropping overlooking the rippled bay and tugged at the bottom of her bathing suit. Her boyfriend, Michael, had insisted she compete in the Pointe-to-Pointe swim of the club’s August Regatta. A small breeze had come up. Goosebumps erupted over her arms and legs. She’d have brought her warm-up coat, but was already too conspicuous with her swim team cap and suit.
This morning, just after sunrise, she’d plunged off the cottage dock into the glossy water and swum for herself—no coaches, no clocks, no competition—only her body slipping through the velvet cool.
She swung her arms to loosen her shoulders and surveyed the cluster of young women milling around—a patchwork of bikinis, sturdy one-pieces, sleek wet suits, even a flashy tri-suit. Claire had trained hard these last three years to stay on the swim team. If she got cut, that would be it for university. Did any of these chittering ladies have that kind of pressure? No, they likely lounged about in unpaid summer internships, took gap years and yoga retreats in Bali.
The morning sun lit up the jagged points of the pines on the opposite point. She scanned the string of orange buoys marking the two-kilometer distance. If she got out in front, she expected to win and in a big way.
When Claire was nine, her mother insisted she join the local swim club. “You’re better than all those girls,” her mother said, pushing her out the door. But those girls were kind to her, sharing their fruit leather snacks with her and lending her goggles when hers were lost. She knew not to tell her mother how hard she struggled to get the best times. Instead, she concentrated on not losing her bus pass or the plastic wristwatch her mother had given her for her birthday.
On the July morning of her first meet, she shook more from fear than cold as she waited on the edge of the outdoor pool. She came first in her one-hundred-meter freestyle heat and then, surprising everyone especially herself, placed second in the final. A series of wins in high school led to the swimming scholarship from Guelph. Despite all those early mornings, all that training, she hadn’t been fast enough for Toronto or UBC.
“You got into university. No one cares which one.” her mother said.
Claire cared. The best swimmers were in British Columbia, and she hadn’t made it.
But that was how she met Michael, in third year by the water fountain on the pool deck. Most mornings, he splashed away with his awkward cross-over stroke in the recreation lane. And when he didn’t show up, she missed him.
“You’re here a lot,” she said.
“My only good habit. Helps me think.”
Michael was scrawny like a crow in winter, unlike the muscular varsity swimmers. The week before, he’d offered Claire his spare towel without asking why she’d forgotten hers. It was obvious to her that he must have more good habits.
A few weeks after that, Claire skipped practice to go on her third-year ornithology course field trip. They piled out of the van at Long Point, on the shore of Lake Erie and Michael recognized her. “Hello, you.”
“Dryland workout today.” She pointed at the rutted puddle full of rotting leaves at her feet. He laughed. She zipped up her jacket and pulled her toque further down against the yowling wind. “Why are you here?”
“TA in ornithology. Doing my Masters. Kathleen, my mom, was a mad birder. I caught her obsession.”
Claire grinned. She hoped she hadn’t caught anything from her mother, especially not her fierceness or cruel criticisms. They tromped through the muck to a viewing platform overlooking the marsh. Despite wearing her thickest wool socks, her feet were freezing in her gumboots. Her assignment was to identify species of duck. Simple, but she didn’t know a Gadwall from a Wigeon. Other than a few gaudy drakes, the markings on most birds were confusing shades of brown.
“Look. Look there.” Michael grabbed her arm and shoved his binoculars at her. “Two Sandhill cranes. They’ve no business being here yet.”
Claire located the pair of prehistoric-looking birds in the grass stubble: two overfed grey-scale flamingos except for the crimson slash along the top of their heads—the biggest birds she’d ever seen.
On the drive back, Michael plunked down beside her in the van. Her hands and toes were freezing, and warmth radiated from his body. She wished he’d move even half an inch closer so their forearms might brush against each other. As Michael burbled on about the different crane species, Claire worried about her paper due in three days. How to get it done without sacrificing another practice? She needed to start taking her courses more seriously if she was going to get into grad school.
Michael walked her back to her dorm. “My binoculars. I must have left them at the platform,” he said searching his pack.
“Should we go back?” she asked.
“They’re waterproof. They’re excellent. Some lucky birder will pick them up.”
And for days afterward, Claire thought about it. The privilege of being able to abandon an expensive item like binoculars. No consequences for carelessness other than the hassle of shopping for new ones.
In Grade Five, she’d left her soggy swimming bag on the bus. Her suit, her goggles and towel, lost. Her mother’s punishing silence for three days until a man phoned to say he’d found it.
Michael wasn’t afraid of losing things. He could afford to be good and generous. Claire wanted to be good and generous too, but even if she could afford those binoculars, she could never afford to give them away. She had to protect the little she owned: her fitness, her discipline, her determination.
After Friday afternoon dryland practice, Claire trudged to her usual carrel on the library’s second floor. Her Ecology professor had given her an extension on her paper. She was scribbling away on a yellow legal pad when she heard a rustling. She looked up. Michael.
“This is where you said you like to study.” There was an eagerness in his voice. “I’ve brought you a coffee.”
Their hands touched as he passed her the Styrofoam cup. She was almost twenty-one and this was the first time anyone had bought her a coffee.
Four months passed and last Tuesday they arrived at Point-au-Baril. She was marooned on a four-billion-year-old chunk of red and charcoal granite. But she’d befriended the waters of Georgian Bay and swam in it several times a day.
A mosaic of islands dotted the bay. Wind-tortured white pines gripped the pockets in the rocks with their gnarled roots. Each granite mound was capped with a weathered clapboard shack fortified by nostalgia and bug-spit. It didn’t make sense to Claire that these wealthy people loved their ramshackle huts. Boat-only access and hauling propane tanks energized them.
When they first arrived, Claire stood in front of the memory wall in Michael’s family cottage. Regatta photos from the past years covered the knotty pine. Gold and silver medallions dangling from faded red and white ribbons hung in clusters from crooked nails. Claire peered at the one framed picture–Kathleen, at the 1963 Pointe-to-Pointe swim of the annual regatta, standing beside by a laughing, toddler Michael. She wore a broad smile below her Jackie-O sunglasses, a vertically striped one-piece and her gold first-place medal. Claire learned that Kathleen won in her age-group every year until she got sick.
Kathleen had passed away three years ago from ovarian cancer. Michael spoke of her as though she’d just gone outside to pick tomatoes from her summer garden. When she was too sick to travel to the cottage, Michael brought her pinecones, rose-speckled pebbles or a hawk’s feather to the hospice. He’d held the scraps up to her nose and she’d inhaled the scents of the bay. Claire loved how devoted he was to her memory. She wanted to love her mother that much.
Michael slipped beside Claire and took her hands. He grazed his lips against the soft skin behind her ear. “Tomorrow’s race is the third regatta without Kathleen,” he said. “You should join in. The Sumners have always come home with a medal or two.”
Claire ran her tongue across her teeth and swallowed. Join in? She wasn’t a Sumner, far from it. She didn’t belong. The Pointe-to-Pointe swim was not her tradition, it was his mother’s. She’d be trespassing. Trying to replace Kathleen. Trying to please Michael. Swimming was a job. She swam to win and to keep her place on the team, so her tuition got paid. “You do the swim if it’s so important to you?”
“Claire, you’ve seen me swim. One of Kathleen’s great disappointments.”
Claire squeezed her lips together. Michael and his regatta. Michael with his token summer job at his dad’s pharmaceutical company—a career waiting for him no matter what. He could afford to play all summer and fret about his goddam traditions. “I’ll think about it, Michael.”
She needed to swim. She ran down the dock, dove into the smooth water and struck out toward the neighbouring island. A cascade of criticisms flooded her brain–too selfish, too stubborn, too insensitive. Her arms and legs moved rhythmically. With each stroke, her anger trickled from her body into the vastness of the bay. She thought about the unknown depths beneath her, so unlike the rigid dimensions and hard bottom of the pool. In the golden-green light, swirling bright bubbles trailed away from the tips of her fingers. She stopped, glanced back at Michael’s shrinking figure on the shore and waved to him. He blew her a kiss. Maybe he did understand how often she felt like she was underwater, holding her breath for too long.
She paddled back lazily and pulled herself onto the rocks, rocks as ancient as the oxygen she was breathing. She flattened her dripping back against the sun-warmed granite and stared into the sky. High cirrus clouds swept inshore from the expanse of Lake Huron, and rising swells smacked against the stone. A yellow maple leaf crinkled past her and tumbled into the waves. She pressed her hand onto a seam of rose-speckled quartz. The warmth and a benevolent hum from the rock penetrated her fingers. An unfamiliar relaxation seeped into her body. She woke when Michael called from the steps of the cottage, “Lunch is ready!”
After lunch, Claire found a dusty pair of binoculars on the windowsill. Probably Kathleen’s. She focused on a bird perching on a tree on the island she’d swum to.
“What do you think?” Michael asked as he placed his arm around her waist, careful not to disturb her view.
“Yellowbelly. Crested. And pointed beak.”
“Has to be a Great-Crested Flycatcher,” he said.
“Too bad we can’t hear the call from this far off.” She passed him the glasses.
“Yup. Totally a Flycatcher.” He picked up his notebook from the kitchen table to record the sighting. His notebook was the same as the scruffy, buff, field journals she’d seen on the bookshelf beside Kathleen’s battered Audubons. “Let’s take the canoe out later and see what else we can spot.”
“Yes, the canoe. Quiet. Perfect.” She’d never been in one. And she could have told him that. He wouldn’t have minded. She was the one who cared that she’d never had the opportunity.
That night, they walked to the neighbours, the Wrights. Michael had chosen one of Kathleen’s flowered sundresses from the closet that still contained her things. “You’ll look great in this.”
The silky cotton swirled about Claire as she faked a pirouette. She’d never owned such a beautiful thing. “Will I need one of those?” She pointed at the jewel-coloured, woollen shawls hung neatly beside the dresses.
“Nah. It’s not that cold.”
They flip-flopped across the furrowed rocks to a long trestle table set with linens and china. An elderly stick of a woman in a billowing, embroidered caftan offered her hand. “Do call me Alice, dear.” She pointed Claire to a seat between two ruddy-faced men. Too far from either Michael or his childhood friend whose name she’d forgotten.
Claire thought about May, her best friend. She hadn’t heard from her since first year. After high school, May went straight to work in a Verdun credit union, got pregnant and married the father. In that last Christmas card, she’d announced she was pregnant again–twins. Even if they did get together–what would they talk about–that one summer they went to the YWCA day camp together or the nail polish they’d shoplifted from the Rossy?
The voices of her two bulky neighbours collided in front of her as they argued about a boating accident—rye, propellers, and rocks. She compressed herself into the chair and stared beyond their pantomiming arms at the deepening plums and indigos in the western sky. She regretted not grabbing a shawl.
Alice’s voice chimed over them. “Claire dear, where do your people come from?”
“Montreal. Verdun.”
The men pushed their folding chairs back and continued interrupting each other behind her.
“Then how on earth did you and Michael meet?” Alice Wright said, her unnaturally white teeth flashing in the candlelight.
“Birds. Zoology at Guelph. Michael is my TA.” She wasn’t going to get into the swimming scholarship bit.
Alice bent over and dropped a piece of her steak into the maw of the greying black lab collapsed over her Birkenstocks. “Good Blackie. Good dog.” She straightened up in her chair and fluttered her hands over the chunky amber necklace that drooped from her thin neck. “Birds. Of course, Kathleen was an expert birder, wasn’t she?”
A flitting bat distracted Claire and when she looked back over the weeping candles, Alice was talking to her neighbour.
Claire gulped her wine and thought about the upcoming Commonwealth Games in Brisbane. She hadn’t made the cut, but her teammate Anne had. Anne was a breaststroker and Claire was freestyle, harder to qualify in. Claire had never been invited to Anne’s place on Lake Joseph in the Muskokas but imagined it was like this but with grander homes and bigger boats.
With her times, Claire should start thinking less about swimming and more about the Masters in Ecology. She’d written letters to Waterloo, Dalhousie and even Concordia, where she could live with her mom. The summer job researching monarch butterfly habitat would help her application. But even with a TA position, she’d have to rely on pool jobs—teaching, coaching and guarding—to afford it.
It was darker now and the faces around the table were softer in the candlelight. Claire hugged her arms around her chest and tried not to shiver. Mrs. Wright announced it was time to change seats and that Claire would sit beside her. Her gold bracelets jangled as she served each of the twelve guests, a piece of berry pie meticulously topped with ice cream. She snapped off a piece of the piecrust from her plate and the slobbering dog snatched it out of her hand.
She turned to Claire. “You know dear, it was thirty years ago, Dennis brought me to this island and presented me to his parents at this very table.” The amber of her necklace glowed in the candlelight. “I was a spoiled, horse-mad, foolish girl with Olympic ambitions.” She gestured down the table at her husband, seated at the other end, but didn’t catch his eye. “Our marriage works because Dennis and I agree that he’s very good to me and that I’m very good to him.” Her voice hitched. She paused and sipped her seltzer water.
No wonder they agreed. They could afford cleaners, dog walkers and cooks. There was nothing left to argue about other than the dinner menu.
The chiming of the forks on the porcelain plates competed with the chorus of the crickets. Mrs. Wright cleared her throat. “Would anyone care for more pie?”
Then Michael stood up and announced to everyone. “Claire’s swimming the Pointe-to-Pointe tomorrow. She’ll be awesome.”
Michael had promised that after dinner, they’d stay up and watch the last of the Perseids’ showers. He fetched sleeping bags from the cabin, and they lay down on the rock with a gap between them. Overhead, the Milky Way smeared itself across the sky and flaming arrows of asteroid fragments streaked passed them. Finally, she spoke. “I didn’t agree to swim.”
“It’s nothing for you.”
“You don’t know what’s nothing for me.” Once more she was being asked to perform but this time for her boyfriend’s satisfaction. “Let’s go back.”
Their headlamps flickered on the fool’s gold in the granite and the chirping insects. Slapping waves filled the silence as they walked to the cottage.
Claire and Michael lay back-to-back in bed, without touching. After a while, she burrowed her wet cheek against Michael’s back. Was she being unfair? Maybe it should be nothing for her? She swatted at the mosquito droning by her ear. “OK. I’ll do it. I’ll do it, but only if we agree that I’ll never have to do it again.”
“I don’t get it,” he said.
“I mean, if we’re still together next summer. Let’s not come here. Let’s go somewhere different.”
Michael rolled over and pulled her towards him. They lay there, arms and legs entangled in their familiar way. The dry summer smell of the cabin mingled with the scent of his skin.
“I’ve always come here,” Michael said.
“I know.”
He straightened his limbs and turned away. She didn’t reach for him but wondered if they would be together next year. She almost said something, but his breathing had become deeper and more regular.
The sun was higher now and the swimmers formed a line along the edge of the dock at the start line. Groups of spectators congregated at various points to watch the race. She searched for Michael and found his green canoe in the spotting flotilla—volunteers in canoes, kayaks and rowboats that kept track of stragglers and swimmers in trouble.
Sparkles of light reflecting from minerals in the granite on the far point winked at her. She wished her mother had seen her race, even once. It was nearly nine o’clock. The muscles in the back of her neck stiffened the way they did at every event. She reminded herself of the promise she’d extracted from Michael last night. Her arms coiled into readiness as she strained to hear the starter’s pistol over the thudding of her heart.
Immediately, Claire was ahead, in front of the milling legs and arms behind her. She was alone with her body in the lake–no chlorine, no flip turns and no echoing shouts. The soapy touch of the water welcomed her arms and legs as she parted its rippled surface. It whispered to her. “You’re OK. You’re OK. You’re OK.”
And she would be OK if things didn’t always depend on winning. If she didn’t have to worry about floundering or drowning.
She glanced up to mark her position in the course and saw another swimmer accelerating past on her left. One hundred meters remained. Claire fired up every fibre of her muscles and sprinted forward. Water foamed around her as she gasped for breath, but the girl was stronger. The gap widened. Second place. Damn. Damn. Damn. Second.
She hauled her shaking body onto the rocks. No strength to stand. Cheering and clapping sounded around her. Michael wrapped the beach towel around her shoulders and helped her to her feet. “Kathleen would have been so proud…”
She stole a glance at the winner. “Who’s that, Michael?”
“Joanie K. From the North Islands. Did not expect to see her here. She trains at UCLA, likely to qualify for the L.A. Olympics.”
Claire clutched her arms tightly to her sides as the club president placed the ribboned medal over her head. She forced a polite smile and muttered a thank-you. She shook the hand of the winner and didn’t cry.
That afternoon, Claire led Michael to the place on the rocks where she’d been the day before. They lay down together and stared up at the scudding clouds. She took his fingers and flattened them against the seam of pink-speckled quartz. “Can you feel the hum, Michael?”
“Sure I can.”
But Claire could see that he couldn’t. He was just being agreeable. And she did love that part of him. Her heart slowed as the vibrations from the corrugated granite percolated through her body. The granite would endure on this shore, changing imperceptibly, for millennia. She didn’t want that sameness. She was obliged to navigate onwards, like a migrating bird, to follow her instincts, her own way.