Farewell Tour

It must have been spring of 2011 the first time I hiked through the woods, up and down hills, out and around the bend, to the grandstand where I watched my eldest son row in his first regatta. We were one family out of hundreds passing on the trail. Like the novices we were, we carried a paper printout of the schedule, but the more practiced parents--they had a sixth sense for when each boat was on its way. One would hold up a finger to the wind and predict when the JV-8 was approaching, and they'd start banging on the cowbell. We watched with borrowed binoculars as they grew from tiny spots on the river until they passed us on the way to the finish line. Coxwains screamed through their megaphones as oars knocked, clanked, and splashed in perfect unison. Moments of glory from our perspective were just that. Brief but extraordinary.

For about eight years, we enjoyed this ritual. Four years in high school and four in college. For the past two, he passed his oars down and stepped up as coach. Today, my youngest and I met him out on the river again. Races had just been called off due to wind, and the park was clearing out as I parked. We picked a quiet spot to eat our picnic lunch--my son, his girlfriend, and a friend. All three of them could recount their first time carrying their boat in and out of this very river. Afterward, they piled into the university truck, and my son drove those sixty-foot boats right out of the empty lot toward school.

The place was empty, and for old time's sake,  we disappeared into the forest for a while. Up and down hills, out and around the bend. Not a single creature interrupted us. Heading toward the water's edge, we caught the sun sparkling on the surface of the boatless river. The only sound to be heard was the wind. Hush, it whispered, just remember this moment.

I will, I promised.