Clay Camero has been writing music since she was a kid and finds her inspiration in nature, in the ether, in rust belt towns, and in the stories of what the flood leaves behind when the water recedes. She lives on a river in the foothills of the mountains of Western Maine and most days she's convinced all of her melodies come from the water. She's been called prolific by many, and a creative genius by some.
Clay, also known as Caethua and Sports, has played in underground bands since she was 14. She believes in the power of music bringing communities together. She started SAXWAND RECORDS when she was 22. She has released over 10 albums, both on her label and through other labels over the years including Foxy Digitalis, Goaty Tapes, PRESERVATION, Psychic Sounds, BLUE SANCT, BATHETIC, NIGHT PEOPLE, WATER WING, Turned Word, FEEDING TUBE and more.
Clay is currently working on her next album on her land in Maine, and is reviving an old church from the 1800's to make it a venue and recording studio to help preserve the rich tradition of songwriting in Maine's Western Mountains.
Clay Camero has been writing music since she was a kid and finds her inspiration in nature, in the ether, in rust belt towns, and in the stories of what the flood leaves behind when the water recedes. She lives on a river in the foothills of the mountains of Western Maine and most days she's convinced all of her melodies come from the water. She's been called prolific by many, and a creative genius by some.
Clay, also known as Caethua and Sports, has played in underground bands since she was 14. She believes in the power of music bringing communities together. She started SAXWAND RECORDS when she was 22. She has released over 10 albums, both on her label and through other labels over the years including Foxy Digitalis, Goaty Tapes, PRESERVATION, Psychic Sounds, BLUE SANCT, BATHETIC, NIGHT PEOPLE, WATER WING, Turned Word, FEEDING TUBE and more.
Clay is currently working on her next album on her land in Maine, and is reviving an old church from the 1800's to make it a venue and recording studio to help preserve the rich tradition of songwriting in Maine's Western Mountains.
Clay Camero
Bridge
originally published in the Christian Century, February 27, 2019 issue.
https://www.christiancentury.org/article/readers-write/bridge-essays-readers
There was no bridge to the island where my father lived, three miles from the mainland. The last time I saw him, he picked me up in his 52-foot sailboat on a blustery day. A gale was moving in from the North and black clouds were rolling low overhead. The river was a sea of rising whitecaps. In that kind of wind it’d be unsafe to raise the sails, so we’d have to motor her at six knots max. It would take a while to get home.
I knew from his letter the week before that the motor in the speedboat had exploded on his way into town, that he’d used his bare hands to grab the burning electrical wires and throw them in the river to keep the fire from spreading to the gas lines. He wrote that he’d “doctored his paws with gunk and socks”; by “gunk” he meant 20-year-old antiseptic cream. Now I could see the scabs and welts through the tines of the tarnished ship’s wheel. “How are your paws?” I yelled through the wind. He grunted and shrugged, laughing as the cold spray came up and soaked us both.
My father lived an impossible life for a bachelor losing his mind in his early 70s. He had aphasia of the frontal lobe and had long since lost his ability to form cohesive sentences. This was tough for a man who once lectured to over 300 students at a time, who prided himself on his brilliant use of words. We attributed it to a stroke he suffered at sea, alone in his boat in a raging tropical storm, hallucinating the most awful demons holding him captive. He was recovered by a Swedish fishing vessel, scrawny and hollow-eyed and broken. We thought for sure we’d lost him to the ravages of his mind, but he came back enough to keep living in his self-made empire, insistent on his independence. As he steered the boat through the storm, I noticed how frail he looked.
Hours later, soaked and shivering, we got to the outer reaches of the harbor. Once inside the cove, we had to make a 360-degree turn to bring her to the dock. We were both proud that we could do this with our eyes closed by now. I wrapped the sternline and bowline in big loose coils and put one rope over each shoulder to clear my hands. In times past, as we slowly approached the dock, I would use my hands to show my dad how much room there was. This time, however, he went toward the dock at full speed. I yelled “Go astern!” He screamed back, “Go!” and so I climbed up and around the spinnaker and got ready to jump five feet down to the dock. Then he knocked her into reverse and we raged astern, heading toward the rocks. I jumped.
I couldn’t believe I made it. I had leapt over a great expanse of roiling water down onto splintered wood. Something in my knee snapped on the impact, and I was down. Pain overtook me. I heard a muddled version of my dad’s familiar command: “Take a turn!” So I crawled army style with the lines and tied them each fore and aft to a cleat. I pulled the boat in with all my might. Then I lay on the dock looking up at the sky, rain on my face, biting my tears, praying.
My dad came over looking down at me with a bewildered smile on his face. “What you?” he asked, meaning “What are you doing?” I explained, as I would 20 more times during my visit, that my leg had snapped and I couldn’t walk.
He helped me up the rocky path to the old house, up the enormous flight of stairs, and to the back room, where an old sail would serve as my bedspread to protect me from the leaking roof. We sat there together, drinking whiskey as the 40-knot wind whistled through the cracks in the windows. We were stuck on the island.
My injury felt serious. I asked if there was anyone who could come take me to shore when the weather got better. There were other families on the island, but he’d scorned their attempts at friendship, preferring his solitude. “Nah,” he said, laughing, as the lightning lit up the room. He’d burnt all his bridges.
Days later, when the storm ended, he brought me his father’s old cane. We went outside together and saw something neither of us had ever seen: a double rainbow, both full and complete, starting in our harbor and ending in the mainland. We held hands and cried at the beauty. God had built us a bridge.