Winfield

"Don't stand up in the boat."

It was the only rule my dad said as he pushed the row boat away from the dock. 

Of course, that was before the line got stuck in a tree. His line or mine, I don't remember. What I do remember is my dad standing in the middle of a pond- water dripping from his beard, glasses nowhere to be found- as I struggled not to drop my yellow Snoopy fishing rod from laughing so hard. 

After hauling himself back into the boat he looked at me and said, "And that's why you don't stand up in the boat."

-Courtney Khail

You can find this painting at https://www.courtneykhail.com/baptism/winfield

Woodbine

“Maybe the thought of relying on plastic floaties scared her, or maybe it was the way I kept eyeing the deep end, but as soon as my mom left on a supply run, Holly became convinced it was time I learned to swim.

I held onto her neck as she waded into the shallow end and slowly nodded when she asked, "Ready?" Before I had a moment to reconsider, she dropped me underwater. 

I can't remember if I thrashed, or just kind of went limp, but soon after she hoisted me out of the water and sighed.  "You have to blow out of your nose, Courtney."  

 And just like that, I was back under the water. Again, I failed to blow air out of my nose. 

Time for a new strategy. Holly sat me on the stairs and lowered herself into the pool like an alligator- with just her eyes and the top of her head showing- and started blowing bubbles to demonstrate. 

"See?"

I'm not sure I saw, but it wouldn't have mattered anyway. She dunked me before I had a moment to answer. 

I'd like to think it's because I was a quick learner, (though to be honest, it may have just been that I desperately wanted to stop being dropped underwater) but within thirty minutes, Holly was back to her magazine on the side of the pool and this two and a half year old had conquered the deep end- treading water and blowing bubbles like a champ.”

-Courtney Khail

Savannah River

"There's something in the water. It always brings you back home." Leaning over the baptismal font my dad's words came to mind as Dr. McCall gently raised his wet fingertips to my forehead.

"In the name of the Father"

Tap, lower, dip.

"The Son"

Tap, lower, dip.

"And The Holy Spirit."

Tap.

This seems as good a time as any to note that unlike some Christian denominations, Presbyterians do not dunk. There are no rivers, no pools, and no need to hold one's breath. Much like our services, we lean towards the understated. We weren't nicknamed the "Frozen Chosen" for nothing.

Instead, a few short months after a new baby is born, their parents don them in beautiful white gowns, carry them to the front of the church and promise to raise them in the Christian faith with the help of the congregation. Three sprinkles of water later, they're baptised.

I was not a baby though. I was fifteen. (And while I do have a tendency to run late, even I have to admit that fourteen years and eight months was an all time record.) 

We weren't new to the church, my parents were actually married there and raised my sister and me within its walls since birth. They just didn't baptize us as babies. My dad, most likely in protest of his Catholic upbringing, was dead set on having us make that choice for ourselves. He didn't think something of such importance, something so personal, should be taken lightly. He felt we should make the choice for ourselves if we wanted to be Christian, and if we did, if we wanted to be Presbyterian.

Which is how at fifteen, newly graduated from my confirmation class, I found myself standing in front of a congregation I'd known since birth (most of whom had probably forgotten I wasn't already baptised) leaning over as Dr. McCall lifted that cool water to my forehead. Savannah River water. The same water I made lemonade with, that fanned out from the sprinklers and ran down our slip-n-slides. The same water that bordered my hometown and filled the canals I crossed every day to go to school. The very same water my dad believed had the power to always bring you back home.  

"In the name of the Father"

Tap, lower, dip.

"The Son"

Tap, lower, dip.

"And The Holy Spirit."

-Courtney Khail

You can find this painting at https://www.courtneykhail.com/baptism/savannah-river

Vero Beach

“I shifted as an ant bit my toe. It was hot- even standing outside the tent. While people bowed their heads in prayer, my mind replayed the memory of the first time I met my husband's grandfather. 

The whole family had gone out to dinner and I ended up sitting to his right. A military man, he wasn't one for small talk and seemed pleased that I didn't force him into unnecessary chatter. His eldest son though, my father-in-law, took it upon himself to fill the silence. He was halfway through a story when Vernon Sr. leaned over to me, eyes glistening with mischief, and said, "If bullshit was music, he'd be a brass band."

We were friends from that moment on.

The roar from the flyover jolted me back into the present- one last farewell from Vernon's fellow pilot friends. As taps played in the distance, I squeezed my husband's hand and watched as they slowly lowered his grandfather's casket into the ground.”

-Courtney Khail

You can find this painting at https://www.courtneykhail.com/baptism/vero-beach

Mississippi River

“Crossing the Mississippi was the first time I really believed we were really moving back. 

Back to Georgia. 

Back to the South.

When we'd moved west to Colorado, crossing the Mississippi was a momentous occasion. We were so excited for a new adventure that reaching the river's west banks felt freeing. With the help of John Denver's "Rocky Mountain High" on the radio, we'd done it. We had officially spread our wings and left the South. 

But for as much as we loved campsites overlooking the Rockies and winters spent on the slopes, after a few years we found ourselves missing the hot, lazy days of summer, the easy conversation between strangers in the grocery store, and the excitement of Saturdays spent between the hedges. Which is how, three years later, we found ourselves back on the west bank of the mighty Mississippi- this time heading east.
The crossing itself wasn't anything awe-inspiring. To be honest, I probably wouldn't have even realized it was the Mississippi if not for the sign. We'd crossed at a narrower point and thanks to it being one of those gloomy, overcast days where even the shadows stay inside, the water was murky and drab. The clouds didn't part, nor did I hear angels sing.

But even so, something inside me clicked the moment we drove onto the east bank.
We were home.”

-Courtney Khail

You can find this painting at https://www.courtneykhail.com/baptism/mississippi

Hilton Head

“It's interesting to me that when I reflect on childhood vacations to Hilton Head Island I rarely think of the beach. Instead I remember the treehouse my parents rented with it's triangular rooms and metal spiral staircase. How my sister and I spent hours biking along sandy trails- paying extra attention to sunning snakes and briars in the tall grass. How the triangular metal slide would burn your palms as you scrambled to the top and how the tree branches hung so close to the ground you could practically walk right into them. I remember how the sun burned our shoulders as we rollerbladed in shorts, bathing suits, and a hilarious amount of protective gear thanks to our mom's insistence, and how the air always tasted like salt. 

Fragmented memories punctuated with laughter and the scents of Coppertone.”

-Courtney Khail

You can find this piece at https://www.courtneykhail.com/baptism/hilton-head

St. Simons

“My mom sat to my right in one of those three piece beach chairs that unfold into a lounger like some kind of reverse plastic origami. She'd moved the chair to face the sun, which I remembered because the sun beat against my back while I played in the sand next to her. Every so often I'd glance up, catching her turn the page of her grocery store paperback or readjust her hand to shade her eyes.

I was nearing completion of what I can only assume would have been the most marvelous drip sand castle to have ever been created when I got distracted by the sun on the water.Similar to heat waves from a hot sidewalk, the shimmering water seemed to be rising.

I was just about to reach out - to erase the illusion my eyes were obviously playing on my mind- when everything went silent.

I'm not sure how long I was under water- sometime between long enough to grab hold of the curved metal of my mom's beach chair, but not long enough to register I couldn't breathe. 

Then, just as quickly as it arrived, the water receded. If not for the damp sand littered with car keys and sunscreen bottles, you may have thought it was all a dream.

Even though the likelihood of another rogue wave hitting the exact same spot was slim to none, my mom hoisted me onto the rock wall that ran alongside the beach. Perched on the rocks, I watched as my mom collected all the wave had swept from our bag- my lime green Universal Studios shirt, a half eaten bag of chips, her book- when a black and white striped towel suddenly wrapped around my shoulders.

"You were shivering."

I looked up and saw a young woman smiling down at me.

"It's going to be okay. You're safe now"

I never learned her name, but to this day I can't help but think of her kindness and generosity whenever I see black and white stripes.”

-Courtney Khail

You can find this piece at https://www.courtneykhail.com/baptism/st-simons

St. Johns

“I stayed in the blue and white room whenever I visited my grandparents (called that thanks to the blue and white plaid comforter that laid across the room's white wicker bed.) 

From the window you could see all the way across the St. Johns River, and in the mornings if you forgot to pull down the shade you'd be blinded as the rising sun transformed the blue green waters into millions of shimmering mirrors. 

Every morning I'd walk into the kitchen to find a plate of fresh orange slices and my grandmother cooking at the stove. Like clockwork, my grandfather would open their bedroom door the moment breakfast was ready and take his seat at the kitchen island. Surrounded by plates of bacon, eggs, and toast, he'd slowly read his way through the morning paper while making small talk about current events and our plans for the day.

My grandmother sat perched on the stool closest to the kitchen. Just like the hummingbirds she fed outside the window, she was constantly in motion- taking bites of breakfast between skimming the financial section and refilling coffee mugs. Even when she'd finally sit down, she couldn't help but nudge the platters of food towards us in silent encouragement to eat more.

Those mornings were always unhurried- gentle beginnings for relaxed days filled with boat rides, lighthouse visits, and afternoon drives.”

-Courtney Khail

Chattahoochee

“I'd never been canoeing before. I'd gone white water rafting and tubing, but somehow I'd never checked "canoeing" off my to do list. 

"It's easy. Just paddle when I say paddle. I'll steer and take care of the rest." 

For a self declared control freak, the idea of letting someone else take the wheel (or oar in this case) was unsettling, but we were newlyweds and with friends, so I decided to give "going with the flow" a try. (Pun fully intended.) 

Much to my surprise, it came easily. It was a beautiful day, the river was calm, and the conversation was flowing. Of course, that wasn't the only thing flowing. Seeing how I don't prefer beer, my husband had thoughtfully picked me up a mini six pack of what I call "adult juice boxes". A funny thing happens when you put alcohol into small, cute packaging though- one has the tendency to lose track of just how much they have consumed. Especially when said juice boxes are cold and taste like church punch. 

A couple of hours into the trip we hit what my husband, J., called "the fun part." We turned the corner and in front of me I saw what can only be described as a hazardous collection of rocks and turbulent rapids that were going to be the end of me. (The fact that it couldn't be too dangerous given there were people lazily floating past in inner tubes didn't matter to me. Those people were obviously tubing experts. Or fools. Or both.) As we floated into the first rapids, I could feel my heart racing as I thought back to what J had said earlier that morning- "just paddle when I say paddle. I'll steer and take care of the rest." 

"WHY AREN'T YOU PADDLING? TURN RIGHT!"

Obviously J. had forgotten the two things he had told me. One, he was to instruct me exactly when to paddle and two, he was in charge of steering.

I plunged my oar into the water, but it was too late. We hit a rock, tipped, and water quickly began filling up the canoe.  

J. floated past me in his life jacket, joyful and laughing without a care in the world, while I found myself standing on a rock in the middle of the river, over-served and in a bikini, holding onto a sinking canoe. Did I happen to mention that there was a viewing platform over this section of the river and we were entertaining a large crowd of onlookers at that moment? No? Well there was and we were.

Some people argue that the key to a happy marriage is separate bathrooms, but for us it's individual kayaks- which we ordered as soon as we got home.”

-Courtney Khail

You can find this piece at https://www.courtneykhail.com/baptism/chattahoochee

BAPTISM (what inspired the series)

Before I share each piece, I wanted to give a little bit of backstory to the series.

I grew up in Augusta, Georgia- a large-ish city with a very small town feel that was built along the Savannah River. I went to festivals on its banks, took my senior portraits with it’s water at my back, and heard one of my first “I love you’s” while overlooking it. I grew up playing in it, bathing in it, and (thanks to it being Augusta’s water source) drinking it. And even though I no longer live in Augusta, the river is still a part of me, which I think it true for anyone who grows up around a body of nature- whether it’s a river, an ocean, or a mountain. It becomes a part of you and a part of your story. Although inanimate, it almost becomes personified in how it’s spoken of and how much of a role it plays in your history.

That idea- that this body of water had SUCH an impact on who I am today- ultimately inspired my entire BAPTISM Series. I started really reflecting on how different bodies of water shaped me- how my memories are interwoven with them and just how different of a person I would have been had I never had those experiences.

Tomorrow, BAPTISM goes live. Nine paintings inspired by nine bodies of water will get published, and accompanying each of them will be a story. Some are detailed, some are not. Some are long, others are short and sweet. I cannot 100% swear to that I correctly recalled brand names or dates or even exact locations- these stories are memories of course and memories fragment and blur with time- but I can swear to the emotions and feelings behind each story. Those are 100% true.

Thank you for allowing me to share my work with you, I hope you enjoy them as much as I do.