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The memory surfaced yesterday, in the sun-sloshed aftermath of my seven-year-old niece’s disco-pool party. Lady Gaga had finally been silenced, the hoards of squealing kids taken home, and peace and tranquility restored around my sister’s toy-littered swimming pool. My mother and I were cooling our cellulite in the pool, chatting with my slinky-bodied younger sister, Lisa, when we noticed my brother-in-law, Matt, immersed in a magazine specialized in model airplanes.
Splashing her shoulders with water, my sister chuckled. “As long as he doesn’t build one of those in the living room…”
“At least you don’t live in an apartment,” giggled my mother, kicking up water with her toes and jerking her chin at my father, contentedly tackling an Italian crossword puzzle. “I seem to remember someone building something rather unsuitable in a living room located on the sixth floor of an apartment building.”
"Papa's canoe!" exclaimed my sister, her face lighting up. My father lifted his head and grinned sheepishly as the three of us burst out laughing. Only someone as goofy as my father could spend weeks assembling a full-sized canoe on the parquet floor of his living room!
I must have only been about eight or nine at the time, but I can still remember him moving all the furniture out of the way, and sitting on the floor beside a giant box, reading pages and pages of complicated instructions, picking random parts out of the box, scratching his head and putting them back in again. I don’t remember what my mother thought of the project at the time, but knowing her I suppose she just rolled with it, sometimes irritated, often amused. Piece by piece, the canoe took shape, my father’s handiwork revealing a long, slim, elegant, navy-blue and light-brown vessel spanning almost the entire length of the living room. It was ultra cool, and Papa couldn’t wait to see if it actually floated.
But how the heck was he going to get it out of the building? There was no way his canoe was going to fit in the lift, nor could we manoeuvre it down and around the steep, narrow stairwell of our apartment building. The only way this water baby was ever going to be set free was to carry it onto the balcony, secure it with ropes, and lower it six floors. Which is what my father did, presumably during a late-night covert operation carried out with the help of a discreet and muscular friend, since most of the downstairs neighbors probably wouldn’t have approved, and I can hardly imagine our crotchety Swiss-German concierge rubber-stamping anything of the sort!
Since there was nowhere to store it, the canoe then spent the next couple of months strapped to the roof-wrack of my father’s car, zooming backwards and forwards between his office, home and the lake. An initial trial run on a small, artificial lake just across the French border proved it floated beautifully, so after a couple of weeks spent perfecting his paddling, my father decided to take me for a grand tour of Geneva’s lakefront, muscling up thrillingly (and soakingly!) close to the famous Jet d’Eau. As you can imagine, canoeing so close to a fountain spouting water up to 450 feet was strictly forbidden, and probably quite dangerous. A patrolling police boat soon spotted us, motored up close, turned on the megaphone and boomingly ordered us to buzz off, but not before a couple of Japanese tourists ambling along the jetty had snapped photos of the handsome young man with jet black hair and bright blue eyes, and the grinning little blonde girl tucked up in front of him, slicing through an iridescent veil of airborne water in a homemade, navy blue canoe, a gunshot-grey police boat in the background.
Who knows, maybe my father and I are famous in Japan! And if we are, could somebody please send me a photo?
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At 19:06:00 on Monday, June 28, 2010, Ziggy Nixon wrote:
Ah, my dearest Francesca, once again how you tickle my fancy with your lovely tales! Such a splendid story and how my laughter echoes through the halls of my private island mansion!! And how it reminds me of the funny times with my own father, before he disappeared with his 9th wife flying over the Himalayas. Sigh, but what an adorable little girl you were... no, you ARE!! And the handsome man with you, if this is your father, then you are the happy and dancing young filly of a proud and strong stallion!! Bravissimo!! Please continue to share these little photos of your life, your joy, your pain, your love! And one day soon, I'm sure they will merge and marry into another champion of a novel as you have already provided your loyal fans with in the form of 'Mucho!' I remain your humble servant, Ziggy
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At 03:08:49 on Tuesday, June 29, 2010, Leigh-Anne wrote:
I love this story and can picture your father crafting a canoe!
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At 20:32:19 on Tuesday, June 29, 2010, Lindsay Townsend wrote:
Great fun, Cesca! Love the way the canoe was lowered down 6 floors! What a lovely photo of you and your dad!
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At 19:54:21 on Thursday, July 01, 2010, Sabina wrote:
You and your Dad look completely fab in the pix! Good on you for remembering such fun childhood moments. I applaud your Papa for living a dream - a long blue one in your living room - may he be an inspiration for more than one of your Mucho readers! xx
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At 13:28:18 on Monday, July 05, 2010, Mona Risk wrote:
What a fun post. Not too long ago my son was building rockets using the rolls from the paper-roll napkins in his student's room in our basement. He would propel them up with a motor and they'd come down with a parachute made of garbage plastic bags!!!
Are you the cute girl in the picture or that's your nice? And who is the handsome hunk?
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At 16:59:11 on Monday, July 05, 2010, Francesca wrote:
Hi Mona! Napkin-roll rocket/parachutes, eh! Is your son going to be a rocket scientist? Yes, I'm the cute girl in the photo, and that's my lovely Papa :) Thanks for reading! Ziggy: sorry to hear about your father being lost in the Himalayas... Lindsay and Leigh-Anne: thanks for stopping by.
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