The Lake Seat

It’s the one place I go whenever I’m feeling either nostalgic or incredibly stressed out. I’ve been going here since I was little, and it will always carry a special place in my heart no matter where I go or what places I see. It is one place that I can simply forget what responsibilities weigh on my shoulders and to lose myself in the gentle lapping of water against stone.

It’s just a week before I leave home to make the 700-or-so mile trek to school. This time I’m feeling a bit sappy as I bike down Park St. heading northward. It’s a beautiful day today. The clear blue sky is only broken near the horizon by wispy cirrus clouds. The sun is warm against my back. The summer-flowering maples are putting forth the last of their perfume in short bursts of infinite sweetness that mingles with the smell of sun-warmed tar, gasoline exhaust and freshly mown grass.

After what seems like ages, but really isn’t, I arrive at the park. It really is The Park here; most people (except for those quite dense) will automatically know which one you are referring to. There are multiple entrances, but the place I want to go is near the middle of the park, not far from the lighthouse that draws most people. As always, I ride down the lane of tall white poplars, the wharf with screaming gulls is on one side and the barely moving river on the other. The river, which divides the centre of the park into a honeycomb of islands, is alluring, its surface covered with bright green lily-pads and shaded by gnarled weeping willows. But that is not where I am headed now. I am intent on the long and narrow quantity of man-made land jutting out into the lake under open sky. Seagulls are spurred into flight as I turn into the parking lot and take the sidewalk that leads to the end of this bit of land. The trees that separate the northernmost tip from the rest of the promontory create a little alcove that I highly suspect is a prime make-out locale. I wouldn’t know. I’ve only ever been there during the day. And I don’t remain under the trees, although I do leave my bike there.

I clamber over the enormous rocks surrounded by slightly smaller ones: the quarry rejects used to populate the shore here in the park. I have to pick my way carefully over the smaller ones that teeter slightly, but I’ve been doing this since I learned how to walk. It comes as second nature to me. I find a nice flat rock for a seat that glitter slightly in the sun. The surface is warm to my palms as I lean back and settle in. I let my feet dangle in the water despite its questionable colour. I can always take a shower when I get home. The water’s cool on my feet in contrast to the warmth of the stone against my legs. The undulation of the water tickles a little. Occasionally, the wake from a motorboat causes the water to come up a bit more aggressively upon the rocks, splashing up on my calves. The gulls scream constantly, their high pitched cries somewhat irritating, but after awhile I tend to tune them out. I notice a mallard and his mate paddling around near me and occasionally going bottoms-up for tidbits of food. I sit perfectly still, and they come almost within a foot of where I’m sitting. They’re so close that if I were quick enough I could catch them with just my hands. But I remain silent and stationary and they continue on past in their quest for food.

Out on the lake, sailboats dot the shimmering expanse of blue. We never could afford a sailboat, so we usually went out in out little fishing boat that had seen better days. In the later days of my childhood, it was better suited as an apartment complex for wolf spiders. It was rather clunky and uncouth in the water with its loud motor. Not so with these sailboats. They cut neatly through the water with their glittering white prows. Manoeuvring a sailboat requires much more skill than simply starting up an outboard motor and going. The wind has to be just right, and then you have to be able to use it to your advantage.

I watch the boats for a little while longer, savouring the peace and quiet. Then, I pull on my shoes over my still wet feet and get ready to head home. I know I won’t be back here for a long time. Next summer seems almost eons away. But I will be back again. I know that much, at least.

Song of the Moment: Salt of the Earth- Lovedrug