A Reverie of Sorts

Sandwiched between the usual Sunday “what are we going to eat for dinner” and “where did I leave my cell phone this time” and “what are you planning to wear for school tomorrow”, a small slice of serenity.

The afternoon was supposed to entail a 24 mile bike ride, a short kayak jaunt on the lake and a bucket or two of balls on the driving range. Peace and contemplation did not seem to fit anywhere into this plan, but it was going to be fun.

Unfortunately, although I had brought beautiful Ruby Opal to ride, I had forgotten the helmet, gloves and shoes necessary to ride her. I banged my palm on the side of the truck in frustration. This was the second time I managed to leave the house half-assed in about as many weeks. For all of my bitching and moaning about the pain in my calf and my fatigue, I was really looking forward to the ride. Another Sunday ride shot, and my butt getting bigger and bigger in my bike shorts.

“Change of plans,” Allen decided after we parked over by the lake. “We paddle around. We go hit golf balls. It’s stupid to drive all the way back to Waresboro for your stuff.” A somewhat surprising declaration, considering that Allen is most definitely In Training for the end-of-season races, and really needed to get some miles in.

When we put the kayaks in the water, there were still a few speedboats and Jet Skis flying back and forth across the “lake”, really just a dammed up creek which was transformed into a long, skinny pond with iced-tea water. It’s really just fine: room for boating and fishing and paddling and birding.

Lib and I took our turns first. We hadn’t been out on them for a few months, and it was evident. We spun in circles and whacked into each other a few times, and paddled a little ways down and back by the shore.

Libby had enough adventure for one afternoon, and retired to the picnic tables to sit and reflect, Libby-style, by texting her best friend for the next hour.

By now, the sun was moving down toward the end of the lake, and the power people had departed for the afternoon. Allen and I ventured to the other shore. I wondered what the end of the lake looked like, because I’d never seen it, so we paddled down the middle of the lake toward the far shore.

This is the kind of kayaking I like- the quiet kind. These particular kayaks are not well-suited for whitewater or anything aggressive like that, so usually we paddle out past the waves in the ocean, or down the quiet part of the Chattahoochee River, or in this lake.

There’s no noise coming from the shore; the only sound is the small splish of the paddles a they hit the water. It’s quiet enough that, even with Allen twenty feet ahead of me, we can still carry on a conversation.

We paddled past the giant land yachts and the CCC-built cabins at the campground, over to the grassy border of the bird sanctuary. Sure enough, there was a flock of egrets heading that way, with one stray bird following behind. We surmised that this must be the Whiny Nerdy Bird: “Come on, guys, wait up! Geez….”

We somewhat reluctantly headed back to shore, not wanting the reverie to end, but not wanting to miss Sunday Whack-A-Ball over at the golf range. If we didn’t get back there soon, we would be playing what we affectionately call Sonar Golf— we can’t see where the ball is going, but we know it’s a good one by the sound it makes leaving the head of the club, and how long it takes to hear it plop down range.

We had brought a watermelon to the lake, a home grown one that is a source of great pride for me. I’ve never been able to grow more than a handful of tomatoes and two cucumbers in my life, but I had six of these beauties this year. Allen chopped off big hunks for all of us for a quick fix before golf.

We sat by the edge of the lake, our feet almost in the water, and dripped watermelon juice down our arms. Allen and I spit the seeds into the lake; Libby carefully picked hers out of her piece because she claimed that she was unable to spit watermelon seeds with any accuracy, and was embarrassed.

As I am prone to reflection at times like these, I pondered the origin of the watermelon. Who thought of eating these things? Where did they come from? We contemplated the possibility of finding wild watermelons somewhere—somehow, this didn’t seem a likely scenario.

We were covered in sticky watermelon juice—Allen dunked his entire self into the lake to get rid of it. We packed up the rest of the watermelon, as well as the rind—I intend to make watermelon pickles for my next adventure in canning—and headed over to the golf course, We indeed ended up playing Sonar Golf, which is actually much more fun for lousy golfers like us.

I realize that my butt will be too big to fit on the saddle if I don’t get back on the bike soon, since running is out for the moment. Kayaking is not much of an aerobic workout, even though, of course, we tried to make it one. The afternoon was a spiritual workout, really—training to quiet the mind and put aside the busyness of life. Watching the dark water pass by, and getting yourself sticky with home-grown melons on a late summer afternoon.