Dragging the Lake.
Another quiet summer's morning. The babbling of the brook. Chattering of the territory red squirrels hold up in a den under the fallen log. The lake still, except for boat skimming insects marking the water's surface like a gentle summer's rain.
A fish breaks the surface. One less oresman. A few familar boats along the shore. Outboard, kayak and canoe, and something new on the shore of this remote Maine lake, a sailboat. I can't wait to she her sail fill.
Years before I sailed in races amid the calendar islands of Caco Bay. And those days were sweet victory but not the memories of sailing that I treasure.
Foster pond and the energized afternoon sun sent me flying across the mile long, tear dropped shaped pond. My catamaran, was the fastest boat on the lake, on those days when I was young and owned the world. I would tack against the wind to reach the far end of the lake so I could jump overboard, maintaining a perilous grip on the lanyard, and while curving my body like the letter L, steer the boat back home.
The wind filled the mainsail and the cat heeled perilously and fought against me to breach. But my core body was strong, my abs and quads contracting to make me the cats rudder.
The rush of water against my body was like immersion in rapids. And my quest for air was not always immediately satisfied. But that's what made each drag exciting.
I never learned what the other people on the lake thought of this pilotless catamaran guided by a tumultuous wake at its stern.
I also never lost my grip on the lanyard, good thing, it would have been a long swim home.