As a kid, I spent quite a bit of time at my cousins’ cottage, directly adjacent to Upper Brewers Locks, along the Rideau. One evening, five of us, all under 13, snuck onto the lockmaster’s property to jump off the lock’s edge into the water, many metres below.
The lockmaster caught us—screaming with glee isn’t subtle, after all—and told us off. For one thing, we were trespassing. For another, he said, perhaps with embellishment, beneath our leaps were the lock mechanics, which consisted of several extra-large metal spikes affixed to the channel bottom. What would be worse, I wonder now, dying by impalement or by drowning? Or how about both at once?
When I conveyed this memory to my mother recently, she had two words: “Deo gratias.” (My response: “Well, Mom, it was the ’80s.”) It probably was divine intervention keeping us from grievous harm in those days, when my brothers and I spent many a summer day boating around looking for high things to jump from.
Fact is, kids are thrill seekers. I wonder if, in those years, my parents should have installed a dive tower on our dock (retrospect obviously being the best way to parent). They could have been sure that the water was deep enough for jumping, the tower was sturdy enough for the inevitable horseplay, and that help was close by. It’s the circle of parental control, not the circle of concern, that needs management, right?
This story originally appeared in our August ’23 issue.
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