Life on a Page

“You can't call it an adventure unless it's tinged with danger. The greatest danger in life, though, is not taking the adventure at all. To have the objective of a life of ease is death. I think we've all got to go after our own Everest.” – Brian Blessed

The rhythmic thump of the motor reverberated in my ears, drowning out all other sounds of the early morning and lulling me into a trance as the large red and white hull of the fiberglass boat bobbed along on our journey upriver. I was barefoot and could feel the large steel prop whirring at 1900 RPM as the blades chopped through the water, churning the black abyss of the river into a frothy white backwash that trailed behind us like slowly dissipating stars. I had the front windshield of the boat thrown wide open, letting the wet breeze from the morning mist soak my face and fill my nostrils with the smell of early Fall – leaves, dirt, river mud, and just a hint of the cold, impending rain.

The 35-year old boat lurched as a four-foot breaker cut across our path, slamming into the rounded nose of the boat and sloshing foam up onto the front deck. I grinned as my knees bent instinctively and I leaned into the roll. The silver captain’s wheel didn’t even buck in my hand as the well-worn keel kept us cutting through the waves, steadfast to our heading for the point of the far off island I had chosen about an hour ago as our next waypoint. The old boat wasn’t pretty, but she handled the river well. She had some rotting wood here and there, some peeling paint, and maybe a leak or two, but she was our first houseboat and we loved her – scars and all.

Elizabeth emerged from the lower bunk of the boat, two steaming cups of coffee in hand. She gave me one and curled up in the window seat, staring across the bow of the boat as the world woke up. “Think we will make it before the storm hits,” she asked. I said, “I hope so. The cloud to the right looks pretty nasty.” I squinted into the distance at an advancing wall of darkness, sharp explosions like veiled firecrackers telling of the violence shrouded in the clouds and rain that would soon be upon us. I bumped the throttle control with the palm of my hand a few times, easing the engine into a more urgent RPM range as I steered into a straighter approach for the island.

The wind was beginning to pick up and white caps now surrounded us, breaking the calm glass of the water’s surface and rippling it into the bottom of our boat. I heard stirring from below, and turned to see a tiny red head pop up above the top step of the approach ladder. Hazel clambered up onto the enclosed foredeck and toddled her way toward me, excited that she was the first of her siblings awake. She walked better on a tossing boat than most adults I had been out with, the concentration on her face apparent as she hustled to get to the front window. I scooped her up into my arms in a bear hug, burying my face into the nape of her neck to breathe in that beautiful, delicious baby smell that she still had. Steering the boat with one hand, I flipped her around and steadied her with my other hand on the top of my knee. Eyes wide, she thrust her head out the windshield and let the wake spray drench her face. She giggled as the boat tossed, heaving into the stiff wind at an angle and rolling up onto the lip of a wave that would have swamped a smaller boat.

Hazel loved every minute of this adventure, her bright blue eyes beamed with excitement as she took in the sights of the coming storm, the angry water, and the howling winds. She jumped from my lap and stood at the sliding glass door that accessed the starboard deck, face pressed against the glass to watch the world on the bank slip by as we headed further into the storm. Like a small sailor, she bobbed and weaved as the boat danced across the rough water, laughing as we climbed the small peaks and then plummeted into the troughs, blowing white spray out each side of the bow as we steamed forward. Not once was Hazel afraid, not once did she cry or whimper. On the water, her heart was at peace and her soul was free – she feared nothing.

We sold the boat a few weeks after that trip and our houseboat adventuring came to an abrupt halt. We plan on buying another boat at some point to replace The Little Nauti, but for now living boatless, away from the open water is the best way to keep Hazel safe. Hazel is no less adventurous than before, but her adventures are different now. It is hard to believe what she has endured a mere year and a half after that stormy day.

The past month has been a hard one for my family, not because of our journey, but because of the journeys of others. Our resolve has been tried as within a span of less than 20 days, two families that were close to our inner circle had members that lost their battles to cancer. These two warriors could not have been more different in physical appearance, and yet so similar in spirit. I read the obituaries of each warrior, learning about their families, sharing in their triumphs, walking in a short snapshot of their lives through words on a page, and felt heartbroken as I realized two stories – two lifetimes of adventure – had been snuffed out by the same silent, deadly killer that lives in my house today.

The first warrior lived a long and colorful life before cancer came knocking on his doorstep. He had seen and experienced much, completed many goals, built a life, loved and lost. The old warrior had spent decades walking his path in this world, touching many lives, and creating a legacy that overflowed onto his page in vibrant prose. His life was well spent, invested in those that were important to him and meaningful throughout.

The other warrior was young, having spent 1/40^th of the time on earth as that of the old warrior. His life had hardly begun. He didn’t have a career, didn’t have a family of his own, had not built a legacy yet. But he still had a page. His page may have looked different than the old warrior’s page, but it was no less important and he was no less loved.

At the end of each of our lives, we are given a single page with words that memorialize our lifetime. Last year I was afraid that I would be writing Hazel’s page before my own, telling the story of a life stolen too soon, pitted with sadness over time lost and opportunities missed. My prayer is that I will never write Hazel’s page and that I will have passed on long before that time comes, but my heart aches for those who have written their own warrior’s life stories or are writing them now.

Hazel’s love of life reminds me that all of our pages are the same length, and it is the quality of what fills those pages that makes a difference. Hazel’s life has been rich, it has been meaningful, and it has been beautiful. I am blessed to be a part of it. Hazel lives every day like an adventure. She cherishes every moment, loves hard, and fights harder. I believe all of our cancer warriors are arbiters of good, that they understand the profound power of love and family, and that they will forever live on in our hearts.

Thunder cracked in the distance as we turned at the island point and began our final approach into the harbor, about to narrowly escape what was sure to be a truly epic storm. Whereas the open river had been choppy and rough, the harbor was calm and almost serene. I throttled the motor back and began to coast into the chess board of docks that signaled safety. The sounds of moored boats – squeaking deck hinges, water against lapping hulls, and the soft, hollow thump of gunwales on dock edges – greeted us as I shut the motor off and glided silently toward the open section of dock that our boat called home.

As the nose of our boat bumped gently into the white dock fender, I turned around to see Hazel standing at the back door of the boat, wistfully staring back toward the open water we had just left. The look on her face was not sadness or fear, but a longing, a deep set need for something lost. I went over to her and slipped my arm around her shoulders. She sighed heavily, and then wrapped her tiny arms around my neck, squeezing gently. I picked her up and we stood staring as gumball-size raindrops began pelting the back glass and the storm rolled into the harbor. We were safely tied to the dock and our adventure was over for that day, but little did we realize what the future held for our family and Hazel’s page.

“You will make known to me the path of life; In Your presence is fullness of joy; In Your right hand there are pleasures forever.” – Psalm 16:11