You know what’s crazy? I’ll tell you what’s crazy™
The Lake Day!
It starts with a feeling, a feeling that I’m going to the lake and you aren’t.
It starts with a look out the window at my sad sack neighbors, filling up their push mowers with gas and pulling weeds.
I can see the perspiration beading on their collective tired foreheads.
Going to the lake, I want to scream. Who cares about grass?
I want to yell that 95 degrees sucks for gardening, but it’s perfect for the lake.
I would give the neighbors some ice cubes for under arm deodorant, but then I think, Nah, I’m going to the lake.
I’m going to the lake!
Going to the lake means you can turn your cell phone off, you can set your cares adrift, you can pop your first Corona at 11 am.
The lake is many things to many people.
I’ve seen a boat load of Grandmas sitting in the shade knitting socks while spinning yarns about the old times and vericose veins.
I’ve seen a boat load of tough guys, straight out of Compton, measuring bicep tattoos and smoking unfiltered Camels.
Regardless, they made it to the lake.
And the 1st step is to pack the Ice Chest.
There’s no paradigm, no rules, no strategy, but I have found a layer of ice on the bottom is the way to start. Like a welcome mat of cold the cooler is open and receptive to any and all drop ins.
Gatorade? Welcome.
Water? Of course.
Corona? You kidding me? Hecho en Mexico.
Next up, burgers and hot dogs and ketchup and mustard.
Ice it down with a frosty blanket of cool.
Now the cooler is ready.
Where are those pringles, and hot and spicy Doritos. Pack them in a bag.
Yum.
The lake is a passport bad. It’s license to dip into the culinary well of food not recommended by the FDA as a healthy balanced meal.
This year I’ll remember the spatula!
Last time I was turning fiery brats with an ink pen.
That was bad for the pen and bad for my fingers.
“Hey what’s this blue goo on my brat?”
Ah, that’s from the blue blood collection. Top Shelf from Chicago. It’s a delicacy. Eat it.
ah, right.
Next pack the truck.
Cooler up and in. Towels. Football.
OK. That was easy.
Now drive to the dock.
Get a cart and start loading. Now it’s getting real. The floaties and the life vests and the food and the tow rope.
Walk down the dock and there’s a change of lattitude and a change of attitude.
Your cares melt away.
Suddenly the soothing lake envelopes your body, your being.
That report due on Monday? Worry about it later.
That mortgage payment in the mail? Manana!
Loading the boat is a pleasant task. Cooler, plunk. Towels plop. Baskets, and bags and a floatilla of food.
Push away from the dock, and slowly manuever through the no wake zone.
It’s a time to breathe in the freedom and the freshness of a full day to come.
Behind you are the landlocked dummies with their stresses and problems.
Why anyone would stay moored in the harbor is a question I have no answer for.
Finally the bouys that signal full speed ahead.
Push the throttle forward and let the ponies run.
The breeze on your face. The smell of trees on the shore line. Blue sky overhead.
It’s beautiful.
Ahead, on the horizon, a lake full of opportunities. Wide open, any GPS direction accessible. It’s floating freedom at its best.
The only burr under the saddle? The jet skiers who are the aquatic version of Hell’s Angels without wheels. They are water gnats that irritate.
Motor to a cove and drop anchor. 14 feet of clearance, just deep enough to do a flip off the top deck.
Jump in the water. 85 degrees. Delicious. A shot of intoxication for your skin.
Float on the surface and enjoy the slight current. Sun on your face feels like life.
Somewhere in the day a beer pops open. It’s the sound of easy street, a melody of chillax.
A splash of lime. Refreshing. That 1st beer buzz is the best buzz.
Turn on the propane and spark the grill.
Woosh. The grill feels hot and the grease on the bottom begins to smoke.
Throw on burgers and dogs.
Sizzle.
The smell of bar-b-que meat fills the back of the pontoon.
Kids laughing, boats zooming by.
It’s a slice of liquid heaven.
Later in the day a wild tube ride and a kid with a smile ear to ear.
The boat zigs and zags, dragging the young rider back over the boat’s wake.
Suddenly 30 mph air and a moment of truth.
Will he wipe out? Will he hold on through the bounce?
Bam!
He holds on.
There’s a cheer from the boat as the rider’s smile becomes radiant.
But summer time is unpredictable weather time and as fate would have it, the atmosphere thickens like cold soup.
The day ends with a darkening sky, a gust of wind and flashes of lightning.
The kids want to ride more, but the adults say pull up the anchor.
It’s full throttle back to the dock, with a slew of other boaters making the same run for safety.
The skies swirl and electricity thickens.
A lake in a big two story metal boat is not ideal.
The no wake zone is now more of a suggestion than a rule.
No time to waste as the skies grow black.
The gas dock is full and the wind begins to pick up.
The two story vessel acts like a sail, floating awkwardly, like a swimming elephant toward the moored boats.
I throttle up and move the boat away from trouble.
“Come on,” I yell at the boats at the gas pumps. “We gotta get in.”
There’s more stress in this moment than the entire day combined.
That’s because I’m looking at land and not at the open end of a Corona and sunshine.
Finally we make it to the dock and unload.
The rain pours down, the wind whips it sideways.
There are no carts.
“Everyone grab something and run for the parking lot,” I holler.
It’s controlled bedlam as the boys carry coolers and floats and towels to the parking lot as rain drops as big water balloons pound the ground.
The boys jump in the back of the SUV. Four in the back seat.
The boys are singing a song I’ve never heard of as we roll out of the marina.
I think of the day that was and smile.
Any day on the lake is a good day.
Hope my neighbor’s lawns look good.
Life’s Crazy™