Savoring a ‘Shehecheyanu Moment’
Dave finds the meaning of that word appropriate on his return to a favorite place.
Dave Schechter is a veteran journalist whose career includes writing and producing reports from Israel and elsewhere in the Middle East.
This moment had been on my horizon for four months and a week.
In late April, from the bed I occupied in the Emory University Hospital cardiac unit, I worried aloud that it might not be possible. Would I be able to do this?
On that occasion I was slapped, verbally (and deservedly), by a cardiology fellow, one of the young doctors whose rounds included checking up on me.
“You should not be worrying about that,” he told me, in no uncertain terms. “You should be thankful to be alive.”
Now, in late August, my question would be answered.
The conditions were ideal. The sun was shining. The air was cool. The lake was calm.
Wearing our life jackets — mine blue and my wife’s red — we lifted the kayaks off the rack and carried them into the water. We shoved off, paddling in the direction of the “boundary rocks” a few hundred yards away, a separation between our cove and what lies beyond.
I had expected those rocks to be the limit for my first time on the lake since the April heart attack and the subsequent robotic bypass surgery in June. But I felt fine, so we kept going, past the rocks and into the next cove over, before turning about and heading back toward camp.
There is a point during every outing at which I lift my paddle from the water, let the kayak drift, and survey my surroundings — the water, the forest, the cabins dotting the shoreline, and the sky. I think about my father, who said that any day on the water was a good day.
This particular occasion was, my wife said, a “shehecheyanu moment.” The meaning of that Hebrew word in English — “that we are alive” — is not lost on me.
I was grateful for this opportunity to return to Camp Schechter, and the cabins in the woods by the lake, where my family has four generations of history, in a part of Maine less favored by tourists.
There is a point during every outing at which I lift my paddle from the water, let the kayak drift, and survey my surroundings — the water, the forest, the cabins dotting the shoreline, and the sky. I think about my father, who said that any day on the water was a good day.
Compared with the more elaborate structures in our cove, our two cabins — constructed around 1915 as cold water camps for fishermen — are, well, functional. The outer walls are also the inner walls. There is no insulation. Yes, the plumbing is indoors and the larger one has a small hot water heater. When possible, a window is left open at night, but when the temperature dips to near 50 degrees or colder, we utilize an electric space heater.
My brother, the rabbi, who is as handy with power tools as with a chumash, is now the landlord. I have no such skills. My contribution this year was painting the steps and railings outside one of the cabins. I did a fine job, if I may say so.
More than the day trips, more than the hiking trails, more than the time to write and read, even more than the sunsets — kayaking is what I look forward to most.
And that is why I was worried that day in April.
I like to get on the lake before eating breakfast, before reveille at the nearby boys camp, before the recreational boaters or jet-ski drivers. When the lake is choppy, with whitecaps, the kayaks stay on the rack.
One evening, we ventured out a second time, to watch the sun’s last rays reflected on the water. The view was glorious.
We were fortunate to see and hear the loons who live on the lake. They are remarkably tolerant of kayaks. If you’re lucky, you can idle close to them, before they dive under and resurface elsewhere.
This year’s visit was for five nights and six days, and on the last, before cleaning up the cabin and driving to the airport, we took one last trip on the lake.
In the 40-plus years of my adult life that I have made this almost annual pilgrimage, I do not remember as beautiful of a morning.
The water was like liquid glass, the only ripples coming from our kayaks. The tops of the trees were showing the first hints of autumn’s colors. There wasn’t a cloud visible.
It was impossible not to look with wonder at this serene setting — and wish that we could stay another day or two, but alas.
Every visit to Camp Schechter is special, but after all that had happened in the preceding four months and one week, this was one to savor.
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