My Brother’s Back
By the time last summer’s Montana vacation was nearing an end, I had ventured only once into the river that flows behind my brother- and sister-in-law’s house. Kevin and I had been there for a week and fished once but never ridden Joe’s Sea-Doo, a personal watercraft my brother sits or stands on to operate.
The evening before we were scheduled to fly home I had politely declined a ride, mostly to avoid donning the highly unflattering water attire I had packed. A few minutes later, when Joe decided to put away his toys for the season, I was feeling mostly relieved but also somewhat wistful about passing up a final opportunity to enjoy the water. . .until my brother’s expression changed—an expression I recognized from decades of looking at that face.
“I haven’t used the Sea-Doo all summer,” he said, standing up. “I’m gonna take it out.” Feeling wimpish, I sighed and changed my mind, too. “I’ll go with you,” I replied to what hadn’t been a question.
I knew Joe would quickly step into whatever expensive, perfectly fitting shorts and shirt he normally wore on the water while I, cursing my choice of swimwear, would put on an old shirt and a swim skirt that exposed legs I would have preferred to hide. “No one will see or care, Jen,” said Joe, when I told him I was feeling self-conscious. That was encouragement enough for me.
A few minutes later we were walking along the dock toward a gorgeous, high-powered machine, probably the best money could buy if I knew my brother.
“Be careful getting on,” he said, helping me navigate the steps from dock to “boat” to find my seat behind him. Then he showed me where to put my hands and feet and promised he’d accelerate slowly.
Getting ready
A few moments later, as we flew across the water faster and faster, he looked back every few seconds to ask whether it was too much.
“No, I like it!” I yelled back. “Go as fast as you want!” Then I moved in closer, tightened my grip around his waist and laid my head against his back in an embrace he and I hadn’t shared since we wrestled each other on the floor as children.
Unlike other drivers I’ve ridden behind—the daredevils in my life who know who they are but shall remain nameless—Joe doesn’t seem to enjoy surprising, impressing or scaring his passengers. Not that he doesn’t like speed or physical challenge; he simply doesn’t drag unwilling riders into the drama.
In fact, had just about anyone else been driving I might have felt afraid or nervous. But I was holding onto someone I had known nearly all my life—a sweet and funny boy who had grown into a confident, compassionate adult. A man who makes it his business to consider the needs of smaller, older or more vulnerable “others.”
I knew with certainty that I would not get hurt.
Long ago the tables had turned from the days when I, with five years on my youngest sibling, had been physically bigger, stronger, more powerful in almost every way. Of course, I knew the dynamic would change as my brother grew toward adolescence, and the day Joe beat me at arm wrestling I lost a physical challenge I would never again attempt. But I never lost my connection with the gentle side of my brother’s nature, which appeared less often as the years passed.
That evening on the water, I watched a family wave to Joe from their swimming platform; I reveled in the sounds of our boat slicing through the water as we made our way up and down the river; I took in fresh scents all around me, of waves and wind and foliage along the shore. I prayed for time to slow down . . .not only was it my last day in Montana, I knew it might be my last ride on any kind of boat until the following summer. So I closed my eyes and committed to memory the images and sensations I had just experienced.
When I look back now I can easily recall the colors, smells, and sounds of that August evening. But all of that pales in comparison to what I will remember and cherish above all else: the strength and safety of my brother’s back as he took me on a final unforgettable ride at the end of a perfect summer day.
