wild and wonderful: Learning to Water Ski

Bobbing in the water with the shoulders of my orange life jacket pushed up against the orange glow of my sun burnt cheeks, my dad’s voice came over my freckled shoulder as he told me to get the ski rope. I stretched out my hand as far as I could to try and grab the rope before it was out of reach, and my fingers clasped around the rubber handle just in time. I felt the tension of the rope tugging me sideways, and the tightly slotted rubber bindings on the skis nearly coming off my feet as the resistance of the water pushed against the top of the skis. At age 9, I was developing some new strength as I tried to circle my legs in front of me with one hand on the ski rope. Tucking my knees up to my chest, I finally could hold the rubber handle with both hands while my dad helped me keep the ski tips pointed to the sky.

“Take out the slack!” he hollered from behind me, but this message was not meant for me. My mom was at the wheel of the boat. We didn’t have a speed boat made for water sports. Just a bass fishing boat with an Evinrude 85 horsepower motor to draw us kids out of the water on youth size wooden water skis.

That motor had enough power to pull my mom or dad up when they would take a turn to ski. Dad would even slalom occasionally, inspiring us youngsters with his feat. We thought he was pretty amazing to get up on one ski and he may have thought so too.

Some say I take after my dad

Mom pushed the gear forward gently to pull the slack out of the rope between the boat and my rubber handle. I could feel myself moving forward, skis beginning to point any direction other than up to the sky, and my dad holding on to me. He somehow continued to help hold the skis steady pointed upward and mom called out from the boat, “Ready?”

Dad calmly repeated the question in my ear, “You ready?” And I nervously nodded and answered, “Uh huh.”

Dad yelled “Ready!” back at mom and she quickly pushed the gear full throttle. My arms stayed straight in front of me, clutching the rubber handle as water splashed in my face for what seemed like a full minute. I tightened my grip and bossed my legs and back to gain balance as the boat lifted me upward. I fumbled with more pressure on my left ski and feeling as if I was about to take a nosedive, I quickly and clumsily corrected and put more pressure on my right. There was a battle for balance going on between my left leg, right leg, back and arms as I fought to keep my skis in front of me and hold my breath amidst the unending splash.

At last, I slipped, and my feet ripped out of the rubber bindings, sending my skis one direction and my body another. As soon as my head popped out of the water, I blew water out of my nose. I looked around for signs of the wooden skis as mom circled the boat and headed back to me. She could easily spot me as the orange life jacket was more shoulders than my head on the top of the water.

Dad captured one ski trying to escape and I managed to grab the tip of the other one just as my mom called from the boat, “Grab the rope!” I swung my head around to look for the camouflaged rope gliding across the water like a long, thin snake and took a few one-armed strokes to get a hold of it before the rubber handle passed me by.

“You want to try again?” my dad asked as he got close enough to help me manage the rope and skis. He floated near me ready to insert each foot in the bindings again.

I answered, “Uh huh” and he tightened the slotted bindings around my heels. We worked to get in position again, struggling to balance the ski tips and rope and life jacket pushed up to my ears by this time. Mom took out the slack and dad helped hold the ski tips skyward as he hugged me from behind.

“Ready?” mom asked as she held her hand over her brow to try and see us with the sun behind us illuminating the water around us.

This time I bravely called out, “Ready!” and within a second, I was battling for balance again, eyes sealed shut and breath held in the spray of water on my face. Holding on with all my strength, I felt like I was sitting on an imaginary chair that would collapse at any second. I finally started to straighten my back and keep my skis straight too. I was up. I was skiing.

Cheers from my dad and cheers from the boat filled my senses as my life jacket slowly worked itself downward, resting on my shoulders and around my waist. We headed away from the sun and I could feel the warmth of it on my skin. I don’t know what was stronger in that moment…the rush of the wind or the rush of my accomplishment.

Dad and my brother behind the Evinrude

Like that day in the lake, my dad has been a steady force in my life many times since then. When I was nearly 16 my great grandfather died and the funeral was a two-day drive from home. I didn’t want to go. I didn’t want to deal with the pressure of assignments, missing instruction, and I didn’t know how to deal with loss. Dad came to my room and told me I needed to go. His instruction was direct, yet he showed understanding in how I was feeling. He taught me in that moment the importance of being present for others who are grieving and honoring a loved one.

My great grandfather, Papa Amis

A couple of years later it was time for college. “You ready?” Dad asked as he put the last of my bags in the car. We started the 14-hour drive, full of excitement for all that was ahead. Mom and dad helped get my dorm room unpacked, which didn’t take long with the little space I had in the 3-person room. Like that day in the water, when dad tightened the rubber bindings on my heels and helped hold the ski tips skyward, dad gave me what I needed and pointed my hopes and dreams to the sky.

Sitting at my desk in my dorm

In front of the dorm

Nearly 20 years into my marriage and 7 kids later, I had felt the cheers of my family many times over. There was a lot to celebrate between the day we unpacked my freshman dorm and the day we unpacked from our adoption trip to Colombia, adding 4 kids to the 3 that already called me mom. The warmth of my family's support has been like the warmth of the sun on my skin as I glided across the lake on those wooden skis that day I learned to ski.

Coming home from Colombia

As a parent, I sometimes felt like that little 9-year-old girl learning to water ski. Some days, caring for the ones God entrusted to me were much like clumsily battling for balance on those small wooden skis. I tried one thing and then overcorrected only to find myself underwater ripped from the tight rubber bindings. As the size of our family increased, the needs increased overwhelmingly. Like reaching for that ski rope, I often stretched out my hand, desperately grasping for the support we needed before it was too late.

Now in my 50s, I have developed new strength with the help of a lot of people in the water with us throughout the years, but I can’t help thinking about that day my dad was in the lake with me. Sometimes during our darkest moments, dad has been nearby helping us manage the skis and rope of our lives. When I have felt hopeless or helpless, his presence speaks, “You want to try again?” Whether I feel like I am holding on with all my strength or holding my breath, he is there behind me, keeping my ski tips pointed to the sky.