A Tip, 365 Days Later
by Madi A. 01/2026
The day the water, a grandfather, and a grandson finally occupied the same breath. Both were captivated by the water
To him, the world was too loud, but the water was a conversation he finally understood. He was a man with very little words.
“… I closed my mouth and spoke to you in a hundred silent ways … ” /Rumi
During his life, he sought out every shore, every hidden creek, every lake, and every plunging falls across our country, as if he were collecting a liquid archive.
Corey had his own memories of water having a pull of their own. He had spent a lifetime of water activities at the cottage on West Arm Nipissing; fishing, swimming, tubbing, boating, and rowing.
Since 2012, his kayak had been his fortress, designed specifically to remain upright, a promise of safety as he glided through his rowing. The rhythm of the lake was a language he understood perfectly, the steady pull of the oars and the reliable balance of his adaptive kayak.
In the summer of 2016, it was a quiet day. While Corey’s grandfather was a resident at the Maison McCullough Hospice, a conversation drifted through the room, the kind of bittersweet talk that happens when the horizon is nearing. Corey was there, a silent witness to a playful pact. His mother had asked for a sign from the "other side," a simple tickle on the feet to know her father was still near.
Corey, in his direct and innocent way, wanted in on the magic but replied, "No, don't tickle my feet."
Everyone laughed, and his mother warned, "Watch out then, he’ll tip your kayak."
July 1st 2016, was his most meaningful row when his coach arranged a row on Bethel Lake behind Maison McCullough Hospice, where his grandfather was residing. From the shore, his grandfather watched a silent ballet of love and strength, a grandson showing his hero that he could navigate the currents.
A year passed. The grief had settled into a soft ache, and the calendar turned to Sunday, July 23 2017, the first anniversary of his grandfather’s passing.
Corey went kayaking like he does every Sunday morning during the summer months.
That morning, the impossible happened. The phone rang at 11:00 AM, and Corey’s voice came through nervously. "I tipped the kayak, I'm all wet."
For an experienced rower in a kayak built with anti-tip options, there was no earthly reason for Corey to be in the water.
Everyone laughed, as it was probably the last thing anyone could see ever happening.
His mother gathered a change of dry clothes; she didn't just see an accident; she saw a grandfather who had reached out with a playful nudge from beyond to say, I am still here.
Since then, every time she is by a lake, a river, a waterfall or an ocean, she sprinkles his ashes and smiles. She knows that sometimes a sign isn't a whisper or a touch. Sometimes, it’s a reminder that those we love never truly leave the shore; they just wait for the right moment to make us laugh again.
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| 2016 07 Bethel Lake |
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| 2016 07 Maison McCullogh Hospice |
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