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2005-08-23 || 4:06 p.m. || nautical observation || i have realized a few things: although i am enchanted with the idea, i do not like lake swimming all that much. it frightens me. i don't like not being able to see the bottom, or being able to see the bottom but noticing it's slimy, or there are small fish, or there are pits harboring various micromonsters. the water also tends to be rather cold in lakes, and i am the type to stand knee-deep for twenty minutes in pursuit of acclimation, only to find this technique is not very helpful. i do, however, love boating on lakes. even if the twenty-five-year-old second-hand motor wedged on the back of a thirty-year-old second-hand aluminum 13-foot fishing boat cuts out and fails to revive after a tense twenty minutes of frantically pulling at the starter cord. many opportunities can be had from such a situation, such as watching your boyfriend remove his glasses and tuck them into the pocket of his discarded corduroy pants to jump over the side in an effort to pull the boat back toward the boat launch, now a mile away and against the direction of the wind, with a rope clenched between his teeth like a benevolent dolphin; sitting vigilantly in the front of the boat to occasionally point out rocks, low-hanging branches, and other obstacles in an as helpful manner as possible, so as not to offend the well-worn nerves of the one whose head is bobbing to the surface every so often somewhere near the bow of the boat; pulling the boat ashore in a rocky spot directly across the lake from the boat launch so that the benevolent dolphin-man (and you, for you've exhausted yourself empathizing with the b.d-m., who despite what you may think isn't able to effectively pull the boat in this manner, benevolently or no) can rest a bit, eat something for lunch, and sprawl out on the rocks for a bit of a recharging nap; waking up to find your boyfriend is snoring loudly in the sun, your kneecaps have started to burn, and there is a pair of insects conjoined in an intricate mating process on your forearm; and planning out the returning trip across the lake to the launch sans motor with the ferocity of bedraggled castaways, sampling wind direction and strength, calculating distance, and taking note of the number of boats cutting across the lake in their sleek gas-powered exxxtreme vessels populated by teenaged girls in bikinis and young men who, perhaps in another situation involving dry land, would yell insults concerning your boyfriend's sexuality at you on the street from the air-conditioned cabs of their pimped-out trucks. guestbook || notes || archives || profile || photos || d-land |