Absolutely
There aren't many activities that can satisfy teenagers and toddlers simultaneously. For our family, boating meets the demand. With only one partially-unscheduled week in the summer of retirement remaining, Yuba Lake beckons: three days and nights directly on the beach for unlimited boating and playing in the sand. We ready the boat and motor home, and decide at the last-minute to take the motorcycles as well. Russ will drive the motorhome pulling the motorcycle trailer, and I will drive the Yukon towing the boat. Lifejackets, anchor, ropes, buoy, towels, and sunscreen for the boat; helmets, long pants, boots, gloves, goggles, and gas for the motorcycles; buckets, shovels, coolers, toys, chairs, and shade tent for the beach; four dinners, three lunches, three breakfasts, and plenty of drinks and snacks to stock the motor home; eight thousand trips up and down the 14% grade driveway on foot to get everything loaded; and we are ready to roll out of town only two and a half hours behind schedule. Ha!
We have had some amazing days at Yuba, marked by cloudless cerulean skies with no wind and few boats; I suppose that those unblemished memories are what draw us back here. We’ve also had some nasty trips, like the family reunion wherein Madame Yuba categorically refused to stop blowing sand—for the entire three days. We still had fun; it just wasn't in the boat. Then there was the time with the huge lightning storm when our engine blew up, and the ranger that towed us off the lake gave us a ticket because the letters on our boat were italicized. Yes, really. No italics on the boat registration number, or you might almost get arrested nine months later when you get pulled over for speeding and the officer notices that there is an active warrant for your arrest in Juab County because you forgot to have the letters changed and inspected by a ranger since it took two months instead of a week to overhaul the engine and by then you forgot about the stupid italics. Yes. Really. But that’s another story. Russ and I are hoping that this stay will be one of the cerulean variety.
Now, after only one uneventful hour of driving, we pull off of Interstate 15 and in just a few short miles arrive at the capricious oasis in the middle of nowhere called Yuba Lake. I head straight to the boat launch in the Yukon; Russ is a few minutes behind me and will aim for the beach with the motor home and bikes. After Josh helps me launch the boat, he will ditch the boat trailer in the parking lot and drive the Yukon to meet the rest of the clan on the beach. We plan on keeping the boat in the water at night to minimize time spent loading and unloading the boat each day.
I turn the key in the ignition, and the boat rumbles to life. It sputters a bit at first, which makes me a little nervous because Russ is usually the one in the boat; but given the choice of nautical navigation versus coaxing Moby Dick the Motorhome across a sandy beach while pulling a motorcycle-laden trailer, I’ll take the boat every time. I give her a little extra warm-up, and she purrs like a kitten. I ease her into gear and hit the gas, and she roars like a lion. I stow my hat behind the windshield before I lose it in the man-made wind, half-sitting on one knee while I smile across the inviting water. I wish I could say the water is a beautiful Caribbean blue, but that would be beyond lying and right on to ridiculous. Madame Yuba sports a murky greenish hue, and she doesn’t smell great, either; but as long as she’s calm enough to see my reflection in, I love her like a favorite daughter. This is going to be a fantastic trip! I can just tell.
What little waves there are cannot match my roaring engine, and I easily beat Josh—driving the Yukon—to the beach. Amazingly, Russ and Moby Dick are already parked on the sand; I’m relieved he didn’t get stuck in any of the deep stuff. The younger kids are already racing along the shoreline as their father paces to and fro, fretting over where to set up camp. This is a momentous decision, since we’ll be living with the consequences for the duration; he gives it the requisite deliberation. Finally, a promising spot is discovered, roughly equidistant from the two other campers on the mile-long North beach. Let us settle!
The water looks calm, and since it is a Tuesday evening, there is hardly anyone on the lake. Only about an hour and a half of daylight remains, but we assess our priorities and decide that setting up camp can be done in the dark, while waterskiing clearly cannot. Hurry, hurry! Quick, quick! We change into our suits and jump into the boat. Eli is first in the water for a quick run, basking in his newly attained status as Slalom Skier (it is a momentous graduation from Doubles, trust me). I am up next, and the water is only getting smoother. I slide into the water, slip on my ski, and following a brief sinus irrigation enjoy a few minutes of pure freedom on the almost-glass surface of the wake. Wind in my hair, spray in my face, I carve the glass and in just minutes manage to create more lactic acid in my muscles than from thirty miles and several hours of cycling. It feels fantastic!
We are just readying Hailey for a run on the kneeboard when we are hailed by the only boat nearby. They have engine trouble and have apparently been awaiting help for some time since there are so few boats out. We happily tow them back to the dock, thankful it isn’t our boat with troubles today. Hailey enjoys a quick kneeboard run on the way back to camp in the dwindling daylight; Russ anchors the boat while I supervise snack time in the motor home, and before I know it I’m drifting off, a cool breeze caressing my face through our open window as I slip into a dreamless sleep….
Tap. Tap tap tap. Tap tap. Whooooosh, snap! Tap tap. Something drags me back toward consciousness. I lift my head from my pillow and see that Russ is also awake. As my higher brain functions slowly return, I realize that the tap, tap, tapping is coming from the flapping roof vents to inform me that the gentle breeze has matured into a steady wind—not yet a gale, but definitely a wind. Russ rolls over and groans as he realizes he is now covered in a fine layer of sand that has infiltrated the window by his head.
“It’s really blowing, isn’t it?” he asks. It sure is. I reach for my phone and check the time. It is 4:09 am and still fully dark outside. The more awake I become, the more alarmed I grow. I now notice the motor home rocking occasionally in the stronger gusts; and if this monstrosity, with the jacks down to stabilize it on the sand, is rocking…. The boat! Is the anchor holding? How big are the waves? Is the boat getting pushed up onto the beach? Or is it getting swamped in deeper water?
Simultaneously, Russ and I jump out of bed and head for the kitchen window to see what we can see. Outside it is as dark as charcoal, and although we cannot see the boat in the water, we can hear the waves above the wind. Russ grabs a flashlight and heads out the door. I watch him through the window, and by his light I see for myself that we are in trouble. The boat—which he carefully anchored with the bow pointing South and directly perpendicular to the beach—is now facing a parallel West, and in much shallower water. The propeller, rudder, and tracking fins on the bottom of the boat are at risk. Russ turns around as soon as he sees this. He makes a quick change into his swimming suit and hurries back to the water. After a few moments, he motions for me to join him. Oh, boy. I make a quick change myself and rush to help.
The door is nearly ripped out of my hand as Madame Yuba’s hot breath ushers me into the night. Barefoot, I gingerly jog the fifty yards to the water, hoping to miss the hundreds of horrid cockleburs that sometimes litter the beach. Russ has chosen our site well, and I am spared that pain. Then a shock runs from my toes to the ends of my hair as my bed-warmed toes meet the chill of Madame’s surf. The beam from Russ’s flashlight reveals two- and three-foot swells crashing into the side of our boat. We’ve seen worse, but the anchor has slipped and allowed the boat to be pushed into the shallows. Now the tracking fins, rudder, and propeller are likely mired in the sand, and possibly damaged from the rocking. We’ll be getting more than our toes wet tonight.
Thankfully, I suppose, we have wrestled boats similarly in daylight. Pushing from the stern (back), we try to coax the boat forward and push her bow (front) back into the waves. Although she’s a low-profile ski boat and clearly not designed to handle very rough water, she can handle this if we can just get her turned around and deeper. Russ heads forward to the bow to try to pull while I push from the stern. With both hands on the back of the boat, I brace my arms and dig my feet into the sand in an attempt to move her forward. I’m about as effective as trying to birth a full-term baby through a closed cervix. My hands transmit the futility of the effort to my brain: I feel the sand’s grip on the hull; I sense the boat’s struggle as the waves pound against her instead of slipping past as she, mockingly, races through them. This is not working. Russ knows before I do.
“We’re going to have to lift her off!” he yells into the cacophony of wind and waves. She has a dry weight of roughly 2500 pounds. I try not to think about that, or about our strapping sixteen-year-old son sleeping soundly only fifty yards away. I clutch the grab rail on the stern with my right hand and the port (left) side of the boat with my left; Russ takes the starboard (right) side. Trying to time our pushes with the rocking of the waves, we heave and ho. I cannot imagine that I am accomplishing anything. I feel no change in the sand’s grip. Seven, eight, nine times, we heave upward and forward as we try to move the immovable. My shoulders are burning, my back is straining, my heart is racing, my hands are slipping, and my legs are freezing in the water. I am ready to admit that I am not strong enough, to call in the 16-year-old cavalry sleeping on shore.
Then, finally, I feel her budge. I have to move my feet to stay with her. She’s moving! We turn her nose into the waves, and she transforms from beached behemoth into skimming schooner under my very hands. We both breathe a sigh of relief and begin pushing her into deeper water. The shock that started in my toes earlier is now replaying itself with each successively higher wave. Thighs. Belly. Armpits. Bracing does no good. I’m now shivering in spite of the adrenaline and my herculean lifting efforts. Russ has worked his way forward and is dragging the anchor along as we go. At armpit-shock depth, he decides we’ve gone far enough and drops the anchor.
“Stay here and hold the boat!” he hollers. “The anchor isn’t strong enough! I’ll have to find a rock.” I am left alone, at four-something in the morning, holding a bucking boat in nasty water up to my armpits.
Alone.
I will think happy thoughts. Won’t it be fun not boating tomorrow because of the nasty wind? Oops. I mean, won't it be fun tomorrow listening to the six kids fight about who gets to sit where while we’re trapped in the motor home because of the nasty wind? Oops. I mean… What the heck is that in the water?!A dark shape has materialized in front of the bow, only about six feet away from me in the water, and although I know that there are no animals large enough to hurt me in this man-made, fresh-water reservoir, IT IS FOUR IN THE MORNING, and I am alone in a seething sea. So when this darkness appears atop the water, my first fleeting thought is that it must be a shark’s fin, and a childish squeal erupts before rational thought can squelch it. I squint my eyes and try to see what it really is as it bobs up and down in the water. It’s not a shark it’s not a shark it’s not a shark. Bobs. It’s bobbing.
Duh.
It’s the little green balloon buoy attached to our anchor.
Whew!
Idiot.
But now my imagination has started running, and no matter how I tell myself there is nothing to be afraid of, scary things keep creeping into my head.
Focus on the light. I’m not sure where the idea comes from, but in desperation or hope of distraction, I turn my eyes skyward; and, immediately, peace begins to seep past the cold and the wind and the waves and the imaginary monsters as I behold the glorious night sky. Like billions of priceless diamonds scattered on a boundless black velvet cloth, glittering stars and luminous galaxies pierce the inky darkness as the universe stretches forth above me in infinite majesty. Occasional, wispy clouds obscure their light like streaks of chocolate in a bowl of Fudge Ripple. In breathtaking splendor, the Milky Way stretches from horizon to horizon in a display of fireworks unlike anything humans could conjure. And just above the northeastern skyline, almost shyly outshining the surrounding splendor, hangs the most beautiful crescent moon I have ever seen: a silver-white sliver of light, piercing the fear and gloom and darkness, rising up and surpassing all else as it pours comfort into my soul.
I love the night sky. But I love sleep more. In another life—one in which my body did not demand sleep like a heroin addict—I might have liked to be an astronomer. Occasionally, I overcome or postpone the need to sleep in order to see a lunar eclipse or something; but most of my night-sky-viewing has happened before midnight. This is possibly the only waning crescent I’ll ever see, since they happen so early in the morning. Gratitude fills my heart and a smile sneaks over my face. Snippets of scripture pop into my head unbidden, but exceedingly welcome.
All things denote there is a God; yea, even the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it, yea, and its motion, yea, and also all the planets which move in their regular form do witness that there is a Supreme Creator.[1]
It baffles me, Bachelor of Science though I am, how highly intelligent, scientific people can study the law of entropy[2] and still insist that life sprang forth spontaneously from the primordial soup to organize and diversify itself. There is a God. He is my Creator. I am formed in His image, and He is verily my Father. Acknowledgment and appreciation of His other creations allow me to feel His love and bring me closer to Him.
I was in the darkest abyss; but now I behold the marvelous light of God.[3] I have, at times, become so absorbed in my trials that I forgot to look and behold the Light. Sometimes that Light manifests like the midday sun, in an overwhelming outpouring of the love of God; other times, it is just a shy sliver of silver, reflecting the brilliance of the Savior’s love through the caring empathy of a fellow human. Either way, the Light is always there, if we just pause to behold it.
Be still and know that I am God.[4] When did I last take time away from the busyness of my life to Be still and contemplate my relationship with God? The still small voice is easily drowned-out by my constant multi-tasking. There is much peace to be found in un-tasking myself, in opening my mind to the whispering of the Spirit.
In God is my salvation and my glory: the rock of my strength, and my refuge, is in God.[5] When I focus only on my trials and the seemingly futile efforts I can make in a depressingly degenerate world, I miss out on the infinite hope and power that are available to me through the Atonement. All I have to do is reach out and ask for God’s help. He loves and knows each of us—and our trials—personally. When my own anchor is insufficient, I must trust in the Rock of my Salvation to hold me steady against the winds and waves of mortality.
Before I know it, Russ has returned, huffing and hefting the biggest rock he could find and carry. He re-checks the anchor, then places the rock on top of it to keep it from pulling loose again. The boat is bobbing happily in the waves, and we are free to return to our dry clothes and warm bed. I am surprisingly hesitant to put a roof between myself and the glorious wonders above. I crane my neck as I climb inside, straining for a last glimpse of the moon as the door closes behind me to end the show. Of course, the baby wakes up as soon as we return, crying inconsolably for an hour or so. And our feet don’t actually warm up until well after dawn. Is this all worth it? I find myself thinking. All the effort to get here, spending half the night wrestling the boat, and it will probably just be terrible weather the whole time we’re here?
If only to see the glory of God in the night sky, absolutely.
