Fairy Pools

March 2015

One of the things I love most about my husband, John, is just how darned capable he is. Give him a something that is broken and he will efficiently identify the problem and fix it. Sometimes it takes a few tries, but he keeps trying until the job is done. I don't think I've ever seen him give up. Maybe that is why he is a mechanic - because he was blessed with some natural aptitude for solving problems and the patience to persevere.

John's capability halo hangs over his physical abilities as well. He has an uncanny knack for always knowing where his body is in space, and controlling every limb and muscle to stay upright on any terrain. He makes the ball go directly into the corner pocket, and lifts objects the size of small cars to retrieve lost items.  Years ago, I introduced him to mountain biking and he was instantly faster, braver, and better able to make it up hills than I. We both took the snow bunny course on his first (and my 25^th) attempt at skiing, and I watched from the lodge unsurprised as he finished out the day skiing down a black diamond trail. When we bowl together we make him use his less dominant left hand. Sometimes he still wins. I don't even bother playing Ping-Pong with him anymore. 

Perhaps the reason I am so in awe of John's physical prowess is because I was born with all the loose limbs and grace of a baby giraffe. As a child I fell a lot. As an adult I fall with such regularity that my kids have taken to saying "she's down again" and going along their merry way. I remember places I've visited by recalling a place where I fell. I once fell in a parking lot in St. Lucia. My husband quietly laughed it off while a French (French!) tourist offered me a hand up. I've fallen in Times Square, the Public Garden in Boston and on Pennsylvania Avenue. One Fourth of July, as I was telling everyone to mind the slippery, wooden steps down to the dock, I fell and required a lift by ambulance to the hospital. But most of the time I groan for a minute, shrug off the embarrassment, get myself up, and limp on. 

Just as John has developed a natural confidence in his body to do what he tells it, I have learned that my body is not to be trusted. I imagine a pair of tricky little leprechauns lying in wait with their invisible rope pulled tight across my path. And yet, no matter how much I prepare, I am still astonished every time I plummet to the ground while the leprechauns laugh their evil little laughs and slap their tiny green knees. 

So when John and I started off on the hike to see the famed Fairy Pools of Skye, in the highlands of Scotland, as usual, John was a 12 feet ahead of me skipping over rocks and skimming across rivers as if lifted by gossamer wings. Meanwhile, I was focusing on every step to make sure I was not thrown by a pebble, or felled by a divot. When we got to the first river crossing, John navigated the stepping stones without hesitation, like they were just another part of the path, as if the freezing cold water rushing several feet below wasn't even there. 

Even as I said, "I need your help" I thought - why does he always make me ask for help? Wouldn't it be nice to have one of those "gentlemanly" husbands who turns around and offers his lady a hand? I wanted so badly NOT to ask, but I did as the only thing worse than swallowing my pride would be hiking the rest of the way in wet pants. He turned around, stepped solidly back across the stones and held out his hand. "It's nothing" he said, "just a few big steps". "Easy for you to say" I thought as I stood safely on shore shifting from left foot to right envisioning slipping and falling to my watery grave in the six inches of water that lie below. Eventually I took a deep breath and leapt - one stone at a time. Much to my astonishment I made it across. Then came river number two. It took me considerable effort to work up the nerve to try again. But after John once again helpfully reminded me it was "just a few big steps" and held out his hand, I made it across unscathed. 

We spent a lovely morning exploring the Fairy Pools, so named because the water is the most amazing shade of clear blue green that they look exactly like the place where a fairy would bathe if a fairy were so inclined. The day was crisp, and the pools were shimmering in the glory of the rare Scottish sun. We took our time taking pictures of each pool, while I tried not to think of the fact that if I ever wanted to see my children again, I would have to navigate those river stones one more time.

Finally, as the morning wore on people started showing up in droves and we decided it was time to go. As we passed each new visitor, I assessed their physical ability. Most were young, and lithe and had the looks of people who grew up on the sides of mountains. Others were older than me, and some were even shorter than me (tallness, as I had learned, being a significant advantage for jumping across rivers).

When we came to the first river crossing we stopped for a couple coming the other way. The man was in the lead and the lady behind was obviously older and definitely shorter than me. "How did she make it across the first river?" I thought. Then, as if to mock me, her husband stopped, turned around and offered her his hand. He helped her across each stone, unbidden, and didn't once give her the advice that John had so generously offered to me. He only helped her. Not saying a word. Once they were across we had a quick laugh about how the river crossings were preventing many interested short people from visiting the pools and then they were off. 

To his credit John offered his help the rest of the way without requiring me to ask for it. I made it to the car after only missing one step going back up the hill. My leprechauns had certainly taken the day off.

Later on, as we discussed the day over dinner, I shared my frustration. "Why do you always make me ask for help?” I said. "It seems as if you are always trying to prove how easy it is for you. You have to remember it is not so easy for me". 

"I was just trying to let you know it isn't as hard as you think it is", he said. "Of course it is", I said. "It is exactly as hard as I think it is." It always is.

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