All I ever wanted was to be the Grand Poo-Bah. Every summer I would walk fast, and I wouldn’t complain, even when my feet got tired and started to swell like two roasting marshmallows, my white velcro sneakers squealing with every step. All I ever wanted was to wear that old lobster bait bag as a hat, carry the sacred walking stick, and be dubbed the leader of the hike, the Poo-Bah.
Every summer since I was 4 months old, my Mom, my Dad, my brother, and I would go all the way to Mount Desert, Maine and sail for a few weeks on a 35 ft. sloop named Galatea. The nearby islands and towns slowly became friends of mine, as I adventured with my family. We took short swims in the frigid ocean, wearing only life jackets on our scrawny chests. We couldn’t stay in for very long because our lips would fade to an icy blue hue, almost like the pale purple color that coated my lips after I popped too many blueberries into my mouth. My tongue would also turn purple as I plucked endless berries from trailside bushes, before rushing to catch up with my parents. Our long sunny hikes on rocky beaches, mountain tops, and lighthouse islands always meant snack lunches of cheese, stoned-wheat-thins, and peppered salami. We explored countless island beaches with large, smooth rocks like dinosaur eggs and marveled at treasures washed up from lobster traps hidden among the seaweed. This is where Daddy found the Poo-Bah hat, just above the high-tide line, in a pile of driftwood and seaweed.
The Poo-Bah hat is a bright orange mesh bait bag, stiff enough to hold its shape and grasp your ears when you wear it. It tickles the sides of your scalp like cold water droplets as you slide it on. It whispers in your ears for the first few seconds, singing an itchy tune that shivers down your middle.
But I never wore the Poo-Bah hat without the proper ceremony: a pass-off of leadership. One such ceremony occurred on the rocky beach of Great Waas Island. We had emerged from the trees onto the shoreline, and Daddy had stopped ahead of me, turning to face my glowing expression. He tapped each shoulder once with the sacred walking stick, a skinny sea-weathered piece of driftwood, and slid the orange crown over my sunhat. I was dubbed Grand Poo-Bah.
I threw my round chest out, raising my chubby chin to greet the ocean breeze, and I started to hike onwards. I was in the lead this time, the tingle of hot blood pumping through my legs with each step. Seagulls bowed their heads as they flew by me, crabs scuttled under barnacle covered rocks. Trees relaxed their waving limbs and stood tall as the wind calmed to a steady, light, breeze. From the scratchy tip of the orange hat, to the dull thud of the weathered walking stick, I emanated pride and the world around me sensed the honor of the Grand Poo-Bah.
Every summer since I was 4 months old, my Mom, my Dad, my brother, and I would go all the way to Mount Desert, Maine and sail for a few weeks on a 35 ft. sloop named Galatea. The nearby islands and towns slowly became friends of mine, as I adventured with my family. We took short swims in the frigid ocean, wearing only life jackets on our scrawny chests. We couldn’t stay in for very long because our lips would fade to an icy blue hue, almost like the pale purple color that coated my lips after I popped too many blueberries into my mouth. My tongue would also turn purple as I plucked endless berries from trailside bushes, before rushing to catch up with my parents. Our long sunny hikes on rocky beaches, mountain tops, and lighthouse islands always meant snack lunches of cheese, stoned-wheat-thins, and peppered salami. We explored countless island beaches with large, smooth rocks like dinosaur eggs and marveled at treasures washed up from lobster traps hidden among the seaweed. This is where Daddy found the Poo-Bah hat, just above the high-tide line, in a pile of driftwood and seaweed.
The Poo-Bah hat is a bright orange mesh bait bag, stiff enough to hold its shape and grasp your ears when you wear it. It tickles the sides of your scalp like cold water droplets as you slide it on. It whispers in your ears for the first few seconds, singing an itchy tune that shivers down your middle.
But I never wore the Poo-Bah hat without the proper ceremony: a pass-off of leadership. One such ceremony occurred on the rocky beach of Great Waas Island. We had emerged from the trees onto the shoreline, and Daddy had stopped ahead of me, turning to face my glowing expression. He tapped each shoulder once with the sacred walking stick, a skinny sea-weathered piece of driftwood, and slid the orange crown over my sunhat. I was dubbed Grand Poo-Bah.
I threw my round chest out, raising my chubby chin to greet the ocean breeze, and I started to hike onwards. I was in the lead this time, the tingle of hot blood pumping through my legs with each step. Seagulls bowed their heads as they flew by me, crabs scuttled under barnacle covered rocks. Trees relaxed their waving limbs and stood tall as the wind calmed to a steady, light, breeze. From the scratchy tip of the orange hat, to the dull thud of the weathered walking stick, I emanated pride and the world around me sensed the honor of the Grand Poo-Bah.
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| Wearing the Poo-Bah Hat on Great Waas Island, circa 2008 |
SUCH a proud smile in that photo. I just love how your writing captures that moment.
ReplyDeleteLittle Rabbit really earned that Poo-Bah hat
ReplyDeleteI love this and all of the description - and the picture really highlights the story
ReplyDelete