A hot day in July. We
find a lake. It’s big enough for powerboats. One roars by, pulling a giggling
girl on an inner tube, but then the engine noise dissipates and all that
remains are voices buzzing, squealing and crying, and water splashing and
swooshing.
I step gingerly over
the gravelly sand, wince as my soft footpads protest. I head for the dock,
opting for the rapid water entry rather than the painfully slow, inching wading
route.
The sun leaps and
swirls on the water’s surface, partnering in a brisk salsa. I take a moment to
marvel, then brace, anticipating the cold shock.
But I don’t
hesitate. I raise my arms, cradling my head. I lean forward and dive in with
grace and ease. I am pleased that my body remembers the leap I learned so long
ago.
The cold flees
almost as instantly as it strikes my skin and I am bathed in a deliciously
refreshing cool. Ahhhh. I glide with a slow breaststroke, venture a few
freestyle passes, all with my head out – I don’t want to bother with regulating
my breath in and out of the water.
I roll on my back,
absorb the softly lapping caresses, and bask in my good fortune.
I paddle towards my
three salt-and-pepper-topped heads, my dear soul girlfriends who are bobbing
about. My weekend with them is a most precious time.
I am filled with
joy.
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