8:30 p.m.-
Johnny Rivers is singing Secret Agent Man and a man's amplified falsetto voice is booming across the
lake from the water ski show in town and a scatter of baleful spectators is
milling on shore as though they wanted to go home but were told of exciting
big acts soon to come. Or maybe they were threatened.
Salmony
orange fluff clouds are vivid with sun that left us ten minutes ago, a better
show than the one that's ready to resume after intermission behind the ski
boats.
We
put in at the in-town boat landing shortly after 7:00. I bought the $20 annual
sticker, which allows me to use it, a convenience not having to drive seven
miles through town.
The
country club is close by on our left, men and women interrupting business deals
to gawk out through crystal facades, porous plastic noses smudging the glass.
Gray
rain sheets sweeping down south of town.
It's a whole other world to be out here. Park the car and step off
the dock and into a place alone with the waves. Space unlike on land where
proxemics causes trouble for introspective types.
I
fished in Peggy Slough. A pair of loons cried their fluttery mourn and that
made not catching a fish worth every lament.
The
water ski show has been staged every summer since I came to town in 1979. An
amateur act supported by donations from local businesses and moms who sew up
red sparkly costumes for the high school kids. Larger crowds come to watch as
summer becomes July and August.