Summer’s over, technically. It seemed a vast slow-ripening season of wonder and recovery, stretching out from May to as far as the eye could see. Not till August did I feel it aging, and grab it with both hands.
We were out at the lake, ([10. The north end of Damariscotta Lake.]) visiting friends. I felt hemmed in, resisting and then relenting to the urge to swim away into oblivion. The sounds of shore faded, the deep darkened, and I was alone with the sky.
I swam for about three hours. I thought “I could die out here”, but I knew I wouldn’t. Emotional tension was erased by exertion and then hunger. I returned cured, ate and ached well.
For weeks I yearned to be in or on the water, swimming, then snorkeling, then kayaking, then windsurfing — pushing myself into places that pushed back. ([20. I also sailed a dinghy on the deliciously lonely Tunk Lake, by myself one afternoon for several hours. It scratched an old sailing itch and finally proved a great number of nautical fantasies feasible. I felt at the time, and no less so now, “this is as good as it gets”.]) I paddled around Peaks Island in the wake of a hurricane, fighting five-foot seas and better advice. ([30. A “small craft advisory” was in effect as Hurricane Katia moved up the coast.]). I climbed on and fell off the sailboard, again and again, and drifted, until I was exhausted. Until I got it, and got home, because there was no other choice. ([40. A “sailboard” is what one uses for “windsurfing”. I like the generic terminology since “Windsurf” was once a brand name, and because I’d rather sail than surf. And “this is my sailboard” sounds better than “this is my board, which looks like a surfboard but is actually for windsurfing, er, sailing, in my case”.])
And I dropped about $5K for these late-summer flings: a mid-life crisis and retirement rolled into one, for a weekend warrior with no week. Six months ago I was too depressed — or stuck in my routine, or bound by expired fantasies — to consider such adventures. Are they more than a distraction now?
Today I’m jolted and unbalanced like a radio out of tune — queasy after five days of 340 mg Temodar, and likely missing a dose or two of anti-depressants after drowning my iPhone and its daily alarms in the corrosive salt water of Casco Bay.
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