Summer Son

Chicken Soup for the Soul: Moms & Sons

BY: Jennifer Olsson

While some kids have bar mitzvahs and others have confirmations to commemorate the beginning of their transition into adulthood, my son Peter -- twelve years old, tall for his age with size ten feet, short curly hair and round, wire-rimmed glasses -- had a sea kayak trip. It was the first time either of us had ever taken a major outdoor adventure together. His goal was to paddle by himself in a solo kayak; mine was to let him.

Peter is my only child. His father and I have been divorced since he was five -- we did not part well. He lives a hundred miles away from us and sees Peter when he can. I wish I could have given my son the mother and father combination I always wanted for him, but it didn't work out that way. After my divorce, I felt that I had failed as a person and as a mom. When Peter's kindergarten teacher called me in and suggested I get my son some counseling, I felt that my failure at life had been passed on to him.

As I worked at shoring up the walls that had fallen around us, he tested their strength by trying to push them down. It took time for Peter to regain a sense of security. It took time for him to rebuild trust in me -- and for me to rebuild trust in myself. Slowly, I learned to believe that I had made good choices in life as a person and as a parent, and that not all partings are abandonments -- indeed, some are necessary and should be celebrated.

Still, learning to let go is hard, especially when you're raising a boy who's about to become a young man. Just when I thought I was getting the hang of being Peter's mom, I realized there was one more step I had to make.

Three days into our adventure, we slowly awakened inside our bright yellow tent on the small island of Tannøy in a fjord of the Norwegian Sea. However, it wasn't the morning light that had triggered the end of my sleep; the sun is up all night during the summer in this land above the Arctic Circle in northern Norway, and I had grown accustomed to its insistent shine. Rather, it was the smell of boy -- campfire smoke in his hair, spicy mosquito repellent on his skin, dried sweaty socks on top of the clothes he had shed the night before.

Our breath had condensed while we slept, forming droplets smaller than tears that clung to the inside of the tent. They released and dropped like rain as I struggled to pull on my shirt and pants.

Peter suddenly sat up. The sun was finally above the mountains that had shadowed us to the east. It was unbearably warm. We needed more air. Both of us reached for the tent zipper at the same time.

"I'll do it, Mom."
The zipper stuck, and my reflex was to offer a suggestion, reach out to help, take command of the whole zipper situation until it was fixed. I caught myself and pulled back. I opened my mouth, then shut it. A moment later, Peter successfully dislodged the zipper, and we both crawled out into the fresh morning air.

We were accompanied by the trip leaders, Tim and Lena, and seven other participants. Everyone got along and shared a mutual appreciation for the dramatic pristine land and seascape. As we paddled, we often paused to take in the towering mountains of the coastal range, their chartreuse-green grassy backs sloping down to the narrow rocky beaches along the shoreline. The unusually windless conditions had made for a smooth passage over the blue-green sea.

From the start, Tim had taken Peter in his double kayak, but on this, the third day of our trip, Tim announced, "Pete, today you solo. Get yourself ready. Take the yellow kayak."

Peter moved quickly, donning the rubbery blue kayak skirt and cinching up the life jacket. I came forward and watched silently. Before he stepped into the kayak, he looked over and asked, "Can you hold these for me?"

His sweaty hands dropped a collection of white shells, worn black rocks and a long brown feather from a sea eagle into mine. I cradled these treasures of his in my hands.

This first attempt at paddling by himself would be an hour trip around the island we had camped on. He was joined by Tim and two other men from the group. After they returned, we would all paddle over to the next night's stop at the Tranøy lighthouse.

Tim pushed Peter's kayak off its sandy perch. With careful even strokes, Peter backed, turned, pointed the kayak toward the sea, then waited for the others. He slyly peered out from under a wide-brimmed canvas hat.

Everything looked big on him -- the sleeves on his jacket were bunched at the cuffs, the thick orange life jacket hugged him front and back. And the way he sat made him look short. I wanted to say, "Be careful. Keep up with the others," but after everything that we had been through over the last few years, I had to show that I could believe in and trust him.

I smiled.

He smiled back.

Soon a flurry of white-tipped paddles rose and fell like a flock of seagulls. The men and the boy moved together out of the protective bay. I waved and waved. Peter didn't look back. I was afraid he would disappear from me without a goodbye.

The kayaks reached the open water and turned to the right.
I kept waving. Nothing.

Then the hat on the duckling-colored boat turned toward shore. Suddenly, Peter lifted his paddle overhead and pumped it up and down victoriously. Two strokes later, he slipped out of sight.

At my feet the sea gently rolled in and out. I was alone on a beach near the top of the world, holding the sharp shells, smooth stones and a feather left behind by a bird that had taken flight -- finally able to smile back on the pain and the courage of a little boy and his mother who had lived on a different shore, in another time... long ago.

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