On a warm June evening in 2018, I showed up for my first canoe trip as a member of the North Brooklyn Community Boathouse (NBCB). I greeted the other members and the trip leader, selected my paddle and life jacket, listened to the instruction details for the outing, and carefully lowered myself into a boat—which bobbed on the water of Brooklyn’s Newtown Creek, a Superfund site.

I arrived at this activity thanks to several factors: my focus on community; the environmentalism I learned from my father; and a chance encounter in a different local group the summer before.

The author, left, joined friends at the Downtown Community Boathouse for her first “public paddle.”
(Photo by the Downtown Boathouse)

When I was born, we lived in a suburb of New York City where houses were close together and sidewalks were plentiful. I walked to friends’ houses; we walked in groups to our school nearby. But my family moved when I was six, to a town further north. Lawns were bigger, dirt roads were common, and car travel was the norm. It’s a beautiful place, but it could be isolating—everyone in their private, closed-off spaces.

New Yorkers wait for their turn at a Community Boat Ride with the LIBC (Photo by Pamela Rafalow Grossman)

My dad organized neighborhood clean-ups, during which we collected trash from the side of the roads near our homes. (I’m not sure how eager every neighbor was to come on out and pick up garbage, but who would want to be the one who refused?) I remember it felt refreshing to see my neighbors together for once, out on the street and not in cars.

My dad also composted; I learned about the practice from him. He used the resulting fertilizer in his gardens. Today, my partner and I diligently compost our food scraps, as well.

After college in the Midwest, I moved to Manhattan and later to Brooklyn. I value the communal aspect of life in this city: We’re never alone unless we choose to be, and heading out by ourselves can lead to unexpected connection. (My mother was unsurpassed at bonding with strangers; I can’t claim her facility, but I did learn from the best.)

In 2015, I read about free boat rides on the East River and the Hudson River while researching a magazine story. Essentially, these are chances for the public to take a boating group’s kayaks or canoes onto a roped-off area of the water—a space big enough to move within but small enough to monitor safely. Intrigued, I soon showed up for one of these events at the Downtown Boathouse in lower Manhattan.

I hadn’t done anything like this since sleepaway camp as a teen; there, campers would take canoes onto a large, calm lake. But I had a great time in my kayak on the Hudson with the Downtown Boathouse group, and I decided to try other similar programs. My second public paddle was the following summer, with the Long Island City Community Boathouse (LICCB)—and that’s where my relationship to boating took an unexpected turn.

Selfie during a break on the Newtown Creek with NBCB members (Photo by Pamela Rafalow Grossman)

I was in a kayak on the East River, tooling around within the designated section for the public paddle, when a group member approached me in his own boat. After the public outing, he explained, the kayaks needed to be returned to the boathouse where they’re stored, about two miles down the river. A group member who’d signed up to help with this task had needed to cancel. The man who approached me said I looked like I was up for the task and wanted to know if I could be available.

I had never paddled down a river; this would be very different than the confined public-ride spaces or the quiet lake at camp. I wasn’t in any way sure I had the skills, but this man thought I did. In any case, he explained, I’d be with experts from the group at all times.

It was a sunny afternoon, and warm but not hot—perfect for boating. I agreed to give this a try.

Did I stay upright and keep up with the group: Yes. Was it easy: not remotely. I hadn’t counted on the strong wake from passing motorboats and ferries. (“If you feel like you’re going to capsize, keep moving and row through it,” a group leader said—advice I now keep in mind for boating and for life.) But challenging though this was for me, it was also exhilarating and a real joy.

One introduction was all it took; paddling on the river, for miles, has been a cherished part of my life ever since. I continued boating with LICCB, and I still do. But eventually I discovered NBCB, which is based closer to my home. In addition to the thrill of our rides, I love helping to reclaim and resuscitate a neglected waterway. From spring to mid-fall, I show up with other NBCB members, launch onto the Newtown Creek, and continue from there.

On the East River with the NBCB (Photo by Pamela Rafalow Grossman)

In May of 2020, the LICCB mailing list received a shocking update. One of the group’s longtime active members, David Bernstein, had died of Covid. Looking at his photo, I immediately recognized the man who had “tapped” me for my first river outing. I’d met him a few times, but I’d not known his last name or much about his life. I’d thanked him for getting me involved and onto the river—but as I read the email and blinked away tears, I was sure I’d never said enough.

So this is for you, David. I think so often about the faith you showed in me—a “small gesture” that turned out to be huge in my life. Thanks for all the good you did. Your obituary notes you as an “ex-calculus teacher, lifelong political radical, and multi-talented theater worker,” as well as a loving husband of 42 years, a father, and a brother. It states that you “shaped many lives around the globe.” You certainly helped to shape mine.