Once upon a time, in the tiny Ontario town of Bobcaygeon, there lived a pirate gang. A friendly gang, to be sure, but pirates none-the less.
Let me back up a bit. For about a decade, my parents ran house-keeping cottages in a picturesque little town on the Trent-Severn Waterway. Their waterfront property had several self-contained cottages, a tiny little beach courtesy of the sand my father had trucked in every year, and docks for the kayaks, canoes, peddle-boat and small rental fishing boats available for their guests.
It was a great fishing spot. You could dangle a fishing rod in the water at the end of the dock and have a tiny sunfish or little perch on the end of you line in no time. This was great for the local heron, who fed nightly from the wading pool my mother filled with water each day so the daily catch could be his dinner. We would all gather on the lawn as “Harry” swooped in, perched on the edge of the pool and nabbed fish after fish, swallowing them whole.
A ping pong table board games and a crokinole board, in the shade of the picnic shelter and away from the rain, made sure friendly competition could continue if the lawn-based bocce tournaments or badminton games got washed out. A swinging hammock chair was the perfect place to while away a few hours with a book, looking out over the lake.
It was a magic place, and I was incredibly fortunate that for many years my parents generously turned the entire place over to me every year on the September weekend after Labour Day, when school and extra curriculars were beginning for older children and their families.
We were four young mothers with husbands and four crawling children that first year. By our final “playgroup weekend” many years later, we four had a total of 10 kids, all born within three-and-a-half years of each other.
Many of our kids caught their first fish – and in one case, first duck – there. They learned to water ski, and fished to feed Harry. They made “cappuccino machines” of frothy sandy water canals down the beach and watched with astonished eyes as the proprietor “drank” it. They learned how to soak reeds to make baskets and to use wet sandpaper to fashion crude soapstone figures. They consumed endless amounts of marshmallows during evening campfires.
But the best part of all was the pirates who came every year.
Every year – at naptime in the early years, and later, in the middle of the night – pirates would invade the beach, leaving behind treasure for the little ones to discover. A little candy, a few trinkets, some gold nuggets and the kids were hooked. They were convinced that the pirates came just for them.
As they got older, the first four started to get suspicious. Surely it was my parents who were the pirates. We could with all honesty tell them that was not true. And somehow, never did they suspect who the pirates were.
I have no idea how it started, but what started out as a lark, became serious business and as each summer drew to a close the mothers began playgroup pirate preparations. There was the gold spray painting of small rocks during naptime one year. The hunt for the perfect old suitcase to house the treasure another year. An ongoing search for eye patches and pirate hats. A note from the pirates. How would we make it better this year – more elaborate, so the magic would stay real? One year, there was even an empty bottle of rum to mark the treasure spot. How did it get empty? The dads may have had a hand in that one!
Our last playgroup weekend was a little bittersweet. The youngest two of ten had turned five years old that spring, and our families had somehow magically turned into the ones for whom school and extra curriculars were beginning. But we had one or two final tricks up our sleeves. That final year, when the treasure was dug up, the kids discovered that the pirates had left them with a scavenger hunt, complete with clues and tasks to complete. It was our own mini Amazing Race, years ahead of its time.
That year, for the first time, one of the boats at the marina next door flew a pirate flag. Serendipity? I know I had nothing to do with it. My parents swear they didn’t either.
Pirates? In Bobcaygeon? Hmmm…….
