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Hot Chocolate and Beth
The hot summer sun set, the humidity was high, and the mosquitoes and black flies were humming as the moon rose above the slowly swaying pine trees along the edge of Snow Pond in Maine. It was time to escape from the heat and weight of the world and go swimming.
I jogged from the family camp across the soft lawn in my swimsuit with sweat sliding down the backs of my knees, hair sticking to my head, swatting mosquitoes, and breathing in black flies. I dove off the wooden dock into the water.
A cool breeze as soft as a whisper flowed over my body and suddenly my hands cracked the surface of the inky black pond. Water exploded around me and I felt myself gliding deeper and deeper into the blackness. My body was absorbed by the darkness and sounds above the water were extinguished. It was so peaceful. I only heard my heart beating and my breath rising in a slow stream of silvery bubbles. My body was suddenly light. I felt like I was floating in a dream. I was seven years old and in a state of awe.
There was something magical and thrilling about being in the pond at night when the colors of the world disap-peared and the water and land became shades of black, white, gray, and sparkling silver. Shapes, lines, textures, and light became more abstract; it was like stepping into a black and white photograph. In the darkness I could merge with the water and the world and feel a deeper connection to both.
My arms were outstretched, giving me balance, and my feet were dangling below. I sensed something moving around my feet, fanning the water and moving close. Suddenly I felt it nibbling on my little toe. I jumped, screamed, and kicked my feet as whatever it was started sucking harder, and I tried to pull my toe from its mouth. And then I felt a swarm of creatures nibbling all of my toes. Fraught with fear, I frantically pulled to the surface, sprinted to the dock, curled my legs under my body, and held on to the side where my mom and dad were standing.
“Something is biting my toes!” I yelled.
My mom laughed in her warm musical voice and said the same thing happened to her when she was little. They were sunfish, small fish the size of her hand. They ate whatever they could fit in their mouths. She said there were larger fish: white and yellow perch, bass, pickerel, and eels that lived in the lake grass and near the lily pads, but they were not interested in eating toes. That made me relax, but not for long.
Elizabeth, our three month old Dalmatian, whom we called Beth, was standing near the dock’s edge making sorrowful sounds. Her whimpers and whines were piercing the quiet night. In the darkness the 332 black spots all over her white body were difficult so see. A glimmer of moonlight reflected in her soft brown eyes, and she looked afraid. She was panting. Her breath was hot on my face. I petted her to try to reassure her, but she would not be consoled. She knew we were going swimming and did not want to be left alone. She pulled away and protested with loud and anxious barks. She tucked her tail between her hind legs and crouched down. She wanted to be with her family.
My mom jumped in the water and turned toward shore. When Beth saw her dark form moving, she went wild and ran to the end of the dock. My mom scooped Beth up in her arms and carefully held her in the water. Beth started moving her tiny paws in a beginner’s dog paddle, making a lot of splash.
My mom guided Beth toward my dad, and when she was right in front of him, she let Beth go. He immediately caught Beth, praised her, and lifted her up to give her a hug. She surprised him by licking him all over his face. He laughed hard, a deep belly laugh, and for a few moments, he held Beth and waited for her to catch her breath. My mom took a few steps back, and then my dad gently set Beth down in the water so she could paddle to my mother. They made sure that Beth felt safe and she could trust them. My parents were teaching Beth to swim the same way they taught my brother, sisters, and me.
My siblings joined us in the lake and we swam with Beth. She wanted to keep going and going, but my mom said she had done enough for the evening. Beth was a little puppy and this was a new exercise for her. My mom did not want her to overdo it or she would be sore and overtired and not enjoy swimming.
Before my mom lifted the puppy from the water I asked if I could hold her for a minute and feel her swim. Mom made sure I had a firm grip on her, and Beth started paddling at a good pace. I felt her speed and power, until Beth suddenly froze.
A high, haunting, and beautiful sound burst through the air. The sound became suspended in the sky and echoed across the pond. The darkness made it feel eerie.
My dad whispered, “It’s a loon, a large black water bird with red eyes and a pointed beak.” He explained that loons are amazing swimmers and divers and they build their nests in sheltered coves or on the islands near the center of Snow Pond— places undisturbed by people. They choose areas where the water is clear where they can see below the surface. In the shallows they can hunt for salamanders and frogs, and they can hold their breath for fifteen minutes and dive up to fifty meters underwater to catch small fish. Their feet are large and they use them like flippers.
The loon was calling his mate. He hooted.
A few moments later, with a long wavering call, she answered.
He replied. He was close to us, his voice louder than hers. He called again, homing in on her plea, trying to find their nest.
She directed him with a long, mournful wail.
Their calls and answers started to overlap, and the pine, beech, and maple trees rimming the shore created a natural amphitheater, amplifying the cascading birdsong.
We saw a flash of silver and heard a large splash. Beth jumped. She was startled but not afraid. The loon surfaced only ten meters away. Moonlight reflected off his silvery feather necklace and made it glow and flicker as he paddled cautiously past us.
The female continued calling with long, loud wails. Her mate answered and suddenly flapped his wings hard and fast and lifted his heavy body off the rippled pond. She continued making her haunting calls and hoots until they united in their nest.
My dad explained that loons were special to the Algonquin Indians, who believed that the birds carried divine messages. The Algonquins were right. We can see the mystery, wonder, and magic in the natural world through loons and their exquisite songs.
Beth was starting to get chilled. She was shivering in my hands. My mom took her from me and carried her out of the water. My dad gently dried her with a towel. Beth loved the feeling of the towel brushing against her skin. And when he dropped his face near hers, she stuck her wet black nose onto his cheek. He laughed and carefully dried her ears, making sure there was no water remaining in the canals.
When my dad set Beth down, she wiggled and wiped her body against his long leg, wagged her whiplike tail, and then she sprinted across the lawn and ran in a large circle around us. We were a swimming family and she seemed to love swimming as much as we did.
The night had become chilly, so we hurried into the camp, where my grandparents were waiting. We crowded around the black iron woodstove and felt the warmth radiate across our bodies. Our muscles eased and relaxed. The burning wood smelled so good; the smoky fragrance of sweet maple, earthy oak, and spicy pine filled the kitchen.
My grandfather Arthur asked us to step back so he could lift a burner off the stovetop and feed more wood to the fire, so my grandmother Elaine could heat some milk and make us hot chocolate. Inside the stove, the wood glowed bright orange and yellow and crackled. Sparks flew as my grandfather added split logs to the hole in the top and the room gradually became warmer. A few minutes later, my grandfather handed me a cup of steamy hot chocolate. Carefully, I took it with both hands and drank it. The chocolate was sweet, creamy, and rich. The drink tasted delicious and warmed me up after the cool evening swim.
