The First Day of Summer

I raced down the slippery graveled path, skidding to a halt where the hill ended abruptly at a trio of docks. One last dash and I thudded onto the worn wooden planks, causing the dock to bob urgently up and down in the sparkling water. Ripples spread in growing circles outward from the dock, finally being lost as they hastened toward the center of the lake.

The first day at the lake was always the most exciting of the season and my heart pounded like an overworked timpani player from anticipation as well as from the sprint from car to water.

One quick shove with a practiced step, and the canoe wafted me smoothly away from the dock. I sat down. The uncompromising hardness of the metal seat was not resented but was welcomed as a necessary and proper condition of "ship" life.

Before I could begin the serious business of paddling, however, there was a ritual to be performed. Done first as a whim, out of curiosity, it had become a ceremony, affirming the proper order of things. I grasped the wooden paddle firmly by the hilt, blade pointing toward the water, lifted it to eye level, then suddenly thrust it downward, releasing it to slice the water like a block of cheese. It hurtled downward in the murkless water, past gnarly black sunken trees, the twisted roots and limbs of which yearned upward toward the surface, seemingly contorted in pain as they performed their eternal frozen struggle.

Now the fired shaft slowed and stopped. It hung a moment in the water far below. A shadow crossed it, cast by my canoe hovering above on the surface of the lake.

Up shot the paddle, springing out of the water like a trained porpoise. Spray flew in all directions as I reached out and caught the missile before it could fall back into the water.

Satisfied, I assumed a paddling stance, approving the rough strength of the wood in my hands, admiring the sleek way the water slid off the broad, glistening blade as it lifted from the water. A moment later the canoe was embraced by a shivering mass of tiny waves.

Some time later I set the paddle down and lay back on the metal framework of the canoe. Though merciless aluminum struts dug into my back, somehow on a special day like this, that didn't even register. Before me stretched a vast expanse of blue sky so vivid it caused a sensation like ice cream hitting a filling.

Gently rocked by the tireless waves, stroked by the gentle breeze, and soothed by the caress of sunbeams, my mind and body eased into the "hold" position usually associated with sleep. The scent of pine trees perfumed the air and the moist, vital smell of lake water pervaded my consciousness. Noises normally too faint to be noticed seemed amplified: waves lapping the distant rocky shoreline; birds calling raucous jokes to each other as they wheeled about overhead; the soft sploosh of fish making half-hearted leaps into the balmy air.

As I drifted, time ceased. It could have been ten minutes . . . maybe ten years. I was so soothed and comfortable that occasionally I dipped a foot into the crystal water so the icy shock would reassure me my senses hadn't quit working - I was still alive and not really in heaven!