The Summer of '22

The Summer of '22

Capsizing, hookers, and a motorcycle gang

Thomas J McCabe

January 2023

Introduction – why write this

At age 81, it's tough to find excitement, let alone the serendipity of youth. The days can go gray, like a death march where life only happens between doctors’ appointments.

Age 81 reversed is age 18, which is perfect for contrast. Age 18 is the literal and poetic reverse of age 81, when life was looking to the future, compared to age 81, looking in the rear mirror.

Here's what you find on an Internet search about things designed for 18-year-olds.

‘Products and services designed for 18-year-olds’: earbuds, iPhone, Nike sneakers, smartwatch, hoodie, step tracker, Garmin GPS tracker, Fisk Guide to Colleges'.

Here’s the same internet search for an 81-year-old:

‘Products and services designed for 81-year-olds’: medical alert systems, senior living communities, home care services, assistive technology, elderly-friendly home design, geriatric exercise equipment, hearing aids, vision care services, and geriatric care management.’

Where's the excitement? Where is the adventure? Where are things about enriching our future? All missing. 

It's up to us to invent our future – as limited as it may be. Great designers and architects know that real creativity happens within limitations. It's the same with us; it will take creativity to invent an age 81’s future – one worth living, exciting, and not about the end of life. The time is now to create memories while we still can; while we can see, hear, and while we still have a memory.

More bad news, the years at age 81 go by much faster than those at age 18. Here's why: a year at age 18 is 1/18th of an adolescent’s life – approximately 0.05555 or 5% of his life. A year at age 81 is 1/81st of a man’s life – approximately 0.01234 or approximately 1% of his life. Our next year will go by five times faster than our 19th year. Wow.

All the more reason to cherish the present and savor our next year – if we get one. It’s time to create our finest hour.

What version of the age 18 excitement and the adventures of adolescence can we recreate now? Better yet, can we create a better future with our wisdom and where-with-all? Blessed with luck, providence, serendipity, and folly - here’s my version of an 81-year-old’s adventure.

At 81, most adventures seem uncomfortable and too risky. It takes external events to impose an adventure and get us out of our comfort zone. Our world shrinks, and we end up doing only what's safe. 

The following events were unplanned; I would never sign up for them. However, it provided excitement and serendipity, creating memories far exceeding my 81-year-old dreams. It’s my story of a geriatric/adolescent adventure in the summer of 2022 - written by an 81-year-old, for 81-year-olds, augmented with impressionistic paintings that capture the spirit of a foregone age.

When we grew up ‘The Summer of 42’ was our coming-of-age movie, about the dreams and fantasy of 18-year old’s. ‘The Summer of 22’ is also about coming-of-age, a story about the dreams and fantasies of 81-year old’s. It's about capsizing a kayak, meeting with hookers, and rendezvousing with a motorcycle gang. A true story, my version of coming of age.

Summer trips to New England

Every summer, I go to New England. The subtext is to find my youth, or at least to try to recreate the memories of my youth. The trip from my home in Brookeville, Maryland, to the White Mountains in New Hampshire is about 11 hours. I usually stop to visit my friend Paul Dalpe in Wakefield, Rhode Island, and visit my sister and cousins still living in my Rhode Island birthplace.

New Hampshire is where my family took its one vacation. I remember the invigorating feeling of the brisk mountain air, the beautiful clear water of Newfound Lake, the awe of the White Mountains, and the connection with nature. New Hampshire is the image of my youth. 

So, every year back I go, in the spirit of that one boyhood vacation, trying to recreate its karma, driving north, drawn to the north star of my youth. Even at age 81. Especially at age 81.

Rekindling stories and adventures that happened when we were 18 years old can transport one back into adolescence. On this trip, I had a mini-reunion with high school classmates on July 18 at the Warf restaurant in Bristol, Rhode Island. Banter and karma picked up where we left it off – at Saint Raphael Academy in 1960. You momentarily forget your body is 81, and you recapture the exuberance and energy of an 18-year-old—borrowed exuberance, a sugar high.

Exuberance is momentary, the sugar high was a foretelling and foreboding of the adventure and the crisis yet to come.

The Tennis Clinics

I bought a recreational vehicle, a Pleasure Way Ascent, to make traveling easier. Instead of making expensive hotel reservations and having a fixed schedule. I take off in the RV and stay at campsites. The campsites have full facilities, electric hookups, water, cable TV, and bathrooms. The RV allows flexibility with my itinerary; I can change dates as I travel.
Campsites charge between $40 and $80 per night – less expensive than hotels. On a long trip, I drive until I’m tired, use an iPhone app to find a local campsite, call ahead for a reservation, and I’m good for the night.

On July 19, I drove to Thornton, New Hampshire; I spent three nights at the Pemi River Campground, which was a short distance to the tennis facility in Waterville Valley. This was the first leg of my RV camping itinerary, which included the White Mountains of New Hampshire, the Green Mountains of Vermont, and the Adirondack Mountains in New York. 

One goal of the trip was to play a lot of tennis and get away from the heat in Maryland. Tennis is my guilty pleasure - it's a way to get a workout and connect with other people of similar age. 

It sometimes feels like a charade; the other tennis players are typically 20 to 30 years younger. But as soon as we hit a few balls the age factor goes away. The joy of cracking a tennis ball, hustling around a tennis court, and competing with newfound friends is a joy that never disappoints. And yes, the exhilaration is not reserved for just 18-year-olds; the excitement is real and intense, more sacred at 81.

There's a peculiar psychological trick and magic that happens to me in a tennis clinic. The tennis professionals, leading the clinics, segment players by ability level and physical conditioning – the tennis pros pick up on this right away and match players of similar skill together. So, I'm blessed to feel like I fit right in, and land up at a decent competitive level. 

Here's the self-deception: the other players in my group are typically 20 or 30 years younger. As we competitively test each other’s tennis skills and conditioning, the tennis vision I have of myself is 20 or 30 years younger. When the group gets segmented by ability, in my mind’s eye, I see myself as of similar age. 

It's only the mirror in the locker room that dispels my age fantasy. I can't believe this cruel trick; the mirror must be telling a merciless lie. Oh well, for one brief moment, I was 20 years younger, not 18, but still younger.

Conway New Hampshire

Even though Conway didn't fit the tennis itinerary, I decided to go there because of the good restaurants and the incredible mountain scenery. Conway was a double stroke of luck; the first was getting an electric cable, and the second was a bit more mysterious, as you will see.

I left my RV electric cable at the Pemi River Campsite during the last day of tennis at Waterville Valley. Someone stole it. After numerous phone calls, the only place with a replacement was the Camping World store in Conway; that was the first Conway luck. I was fortunate – without an electrical hookup my vacation would have come to an end.

On Saturday the 23rd, I stayed at the Eastern Slope Camping Area. Sunday morning at the Camping Office, I overheard that the last kayak trip would leave at 11:30. The office clerk discouraged me from going because no other people were going at 11:30. Not a good idea to go alone. Also, because there were no trips scheduled after 11:30, if I had a problem, nobody was coming down the river after me to help. Not only that, but the clerk could also see I was about 81 years old, and she obliquely hinted that most kayakers she sees are in their 30s or 40s.

There was adventure in the air after meeting with classmates who were friends when I was 18; there was something about the New Hampshire Mountain air that I used to experience when I was 18, and my 18-year-old voice took over. I told the office clerk, “no sweat, sign me up.”

Next was to get ferried upstream. I told the manager who drove me upstream to the Saco River access point that we would experiment when we got there. If I couldn't get into or out of the kayak, we’d both have a good laugh, and he would drive me back to the office.

I could barely get into and out of the kayak, but the scenery of the river and the excitement took over. The manager did me no favor – he told me the seat was broken on my kayak but sent me on my merry way anyway. The broken seat was a nightmare – six hours sitting up straight with no back support puts your back into spasm.

After barely making my way into the kayak and walking about two hundred yards across gravel pulling the kayak, the first challenge of just getting into the river was the only thing to focus on. When I pushed off into the water, I realized I did not know how to navigate a kayak – it’s different from turning a canoe. I thought a stretch of calm water would be all I needed to figure this out, but I was headed straight for two local families sitting in their half-chairs in the middle of the river. 

Me: “Here I come; sorry about this, watch out.” 

I hit the back of a half-chair; the guy saw how ridiculous I was and just laughed.

Half-chair guy (with a laugh): “Good luck on the rest of the trip.”

I had a short 50-yard stretch of calm water for a quick study in kayak maneuvers – the only thing I learned is that I didn't know how to do it. A side stroke on the left side wouldn't pull you to the right – at a wide angle; it pulled me to the left – the opposite of what I expected.

I had a case of kayak panic. Sometimes paddling on the left pulled me to the left, and sometimes to the right. When I encountered rapids, I got unexpected results from paddling.

Around the next bend, I encountered kids swinging off trees into the water. It seemed like poetry on the river, precisely what I would do when I was eighteen.

Epiphany on the Saco

Little further down the river, I hit rapids that forced me to the right bank, followed by a sharp left. 

My left stroke went right, and I flipped the kayak; it pinned me to the right bank. Bang, thrown in the water, pinned against the right bank. The water was cool, no panic there. I

realized the kayak was full of water, and I couldn't tip it up right, nor could I maneuver. 

It took a few minutes to realize my only shot was to get the kayak and paddle across the river to a beach on the other side – thinking I could flip the kayak to get the water out.

It was a nightmare going across the river. The kayak was full of water weighing about five hundred pounds. Dragging it across the river while holding on to the paddle took about twenty horrific minutes.

I arrived on the left bank, which had a flat rocky beach. I thought I could empty the kayak there. No such luck; it was way too heavy to lift. I tried rocking it, and it didn't even budge. I tried cupping my hands to empty the water; it would have taken two weeks.

So, the transcendent moment of the day was upon me. I sat on the gravel on the beach with no options. I was the last guy down, couldn't get the kayak going, and had a 6-mile downriver stretch in front of me. No plan, no options.

A mystical mindset sets in when you can’t figure out what to do. No anxiety or stress trying to execute a plan because there is no plan. I sat there trying to figure out how to get out of this. And then it struck me; there’s no getting out of this; there are no options. I first had a flash of guilt; how stupid. I am a successful 81-year-old; how can I make such a ridiculous mistake? A bluebird flew over and chirped; I realized he had more sense than I did.

After letting go of the guilt, it was somewhat mystical. The scenery was beautiful, the sound and smell of the Sacco River filled the senses, and the Mountain views were heaven for people that love nature. So, I suspended my guilt and judgment, forgot about finding a plan, and lived in the moment. The moment was rather glorious. No flashbacks or regrets, no plan moving forward, no excuses or apologies to friends. None of that in my mind – I just sat there. Fully present.

I study Buddhism, and I meditate. I saw New Hampshire more clearly than ever before. I was fully present in the moment – no plans, no expectations, no fear.

Every 5 minutes, I would look upriver, hoping to see anyone. I got rid of hope in the Buddhist tradition and looked upstream with no expectations or drama. It’s easier that way; you see more. The Buddha would have been proud.

This went on for an hour and a half.

Then four Canadians saved the day. A husband and wife were sharing a canoe with two friends in kayaks. They could see my distress when summoned and were happy to help. It took three of us to flip the kayak and drain the water.

I thanked them profusely. They thought it was comical because they didn't quite understand English. I asked if I could tag along, and they said sure.

After a mile or so, I couldn't keep up with the Canadians and was back on my own.

Around the next bend in the river, I encountered a bunch of Latino kids jumping off a railroad trestle bridge for a 40-foot drop into the river. They went one at a time - with a dare, a jump, a splash, and then applause. It was joyful, and I was a participant in a curious way. As I approached them, I had to announce, “kayak out of control.” They responded appropriately, clearing an opening. They hollered, “clear the way for the white Moses,” and had a good laugh, and so did I – a great way to make friends😀.

At 81 years old, living in an economic and cultural bubble, one misses the experience of broader society – the things you experience as an 18-year-old. Wouldn't you love to be in the middle of a bunch of Latino kids laughing and singing and jumping off a railroad trestle bridge? 

They heard a train coming and alerted the trestle bridge guys to jump immediately. 

In any case, I was thrust into the middle of this, and it was more than vicarious; I was physically part of the scene. Now that's a gift, a gift for us old men living in a bubble who only see these things out of the window of our expensive automobiles, or out the window of trains on the wrong side of town, or in the newspapers, or on the TV news. Other than that, we miss out. And we know we miss out. It takes a special event to burst this bubble. It takes something like an out-of-control kayak ride, pure serendipity. You can't plan it, you can't expect it, and you don't deserve it. The excitement is reserved for the young at heart – and you’re right in the middle of the scene. Thank you, Sacco River. Thank you for my seeming folly.

The Sacco River meanders around turns, each unique. By turn, the shore is mountains, then flat land, then dense forests. Each turn had its unique beauty, and some turns had a surprise. 

Hookers

A couple of turns downriver and another surprise. Buxom Amazon women by the river, the sexiest of which was in the middle of the river. She walked down the river, it appeared she had no bathing suit. It turned out to be a flesh-colored bikini. 

Right here in the middle of the Sacco River were four prostitutes and two Johns to collect money.

I tried to look anonymous –I just wanted to slink by unnoticed. That didn't work, the crazy one with the flesh-colored bikini started to chase me. You can run downriver at about the same rate as a free-flow kayak. I couldn’t figure out if this was my worst nightmare or a wet dream. This went on for about 200 yards. It turned out the flesh-colored bikini ran downriver to join another group – whew, crisis avoided.

Cigar Woman

Around another corner, still out of control, I was looking for somebody to buddy up with – where we could help each other. I couldn't help anybody, but I thought someone might volunteer.

I spotted an overweight, heavily tattooed woman with cans of beer and a cigar that looked like she might be willing. Or, at least, she’d appreciate the offer.

Me: “Hey, why don't we help each other get down the river.”

Cigar Woman: “Why not.”

Me: “Have you done this before?”

Cigar Woman: “Yeah, three or four times.”

So, we joined forces and between rapids, got to know each other a bit. 

I asked where she would get out of the river. You start at a campsite downriver, get shuttled 10 miles upriver, and get out at your home campsite. My campsite was the Eastern Shore Campsite.

Me:” I get out at the Eastern Shore Camping Area; you too?”.

Cigar Woman: “No, I get out about two miles before you at the Saco River Campsite. I’m with a group; we will all meet up there.”

Me: “What kind of group is it?”

Cigar Woman: “A motorcycle gang. I’ll introduce you.”

Me: “Great. How many miles to your campsite?”

Cigar Woman: “Another 3 miles or so; we’re about halfway there.”        

We meandered down the river with a crash here and a crash there, but no capsizing. Cigar Woman was good company, a strange bedfellow. The river demanded full attention, but the scenes of mountains, lush forests, wildlife, and other kayakers were breathtaking. Seeing nature while moving on a river has a certain majesty. Pictures don’t even come close. Seeing nature while you're kayaking a river has a dynamic –you’re part of the scene you’re witnessing.

The river had a straight leg where I could see Cigar Woman's motorcycle gang. I braced myself for what you would expect from a motorcycle gang. 

Tell the truth, wouldn't you love to be with a motorcycle gang, just for a short spell? With an

escort, no less. Given my degree of frustration, I had no hesitation and was happy to meet up with anybody.

That's the magic. How else could this happen? You wouldn't buy a ticket for this, but then again, you wouldn't want to miss it. 

I got introduced to people with crazy leather hats, tattoos, cigars, beer, and a beer-carrying inner tube. All unique and authentic; no posturing here. The whole scene was a freak show; in their eyes, I was the ultimate freak – an elderly old man, white as rice, totally out of control – but with a sense of humor. They could not have been nicer. After a short spell, I wished them well, thanked the Cigar Woman, and went on my way.

Apart from the Latino kids, the hookers, and the motorcycle gang; there were some snooty people traversing the rapids like they were pros. These condescending rich locals had rigged out kayaks and were unsympathetic to us blundering amateurs; they wouldn’t look at us, and no eye contact. I saw several women with stuck-up toy dogs propped up at the bow of their kayaks, indigently paddling and ignoring and disgusted with us stumbling vacationers. Even the dogs looked patronizing - Portuguese poodles with pompous Penelope.

This went on for six hours. With no back support, it was mighty uncomfortable. Sometimes pain and discomfort can heighten the intensity of an experience – so it was on the Sacco River.

Near the end, I approached a beach that looked like my campsite – I asked some people and was told, “no.” They told me it’s another hour or so downriver for my campsite. Never mind an hour; I felt like I couldn’t last five more minutes.

At last, my campsite. I got out of the kayak, and my knees were locked. I swam in the river for a half-hour, which loosened me up. Relieved and exhausted, the cool Sacco River was a tonic.

Conclusion

This was a once-in-a-lifetime experience, at 81, no less. Where else could you sign up to see nature and society in the roar?  Where do you sign up to relive your youth – to see the movie to the end, in a river with no exits? There was no way to get off without having the full Monty experience. 

Where else does the bubble burst that keeps us trapped as 81 years old between doctors’ appointments, waiting for the next medical emergency, wondering how many years we have left? Where else would you be thrust into a river with its own energy, its own plan of events, its own unique scenes, its own excitement, its own poetic story? 

Thank You, Sacco River

So, was it worth it?

I already have my reservation for next year. 

Here’s the number for the Saco River Kayaking Company: 603 447 4275.

Acknowledgment

The paintings are original, and they are mine – in a sense. They were done with the help of artificial intelligence called DALL-E. I described what I wanted, and DALL-E would paint the scene.

The artificial intelligence is clever, but clearly the inspiration is the real gift 😊.