CHAPTER 2 - COOL WATER

The coolness. That's what I remember. Never too hot, never too cold.

And spinning.

We would spend summers at the cottage. An old tool shed that my grandfather brought to the island. Converted to two bedrooms and a kitchen/dining area/living room, it was my 500 square feet of Summer bliss.

I remember her frying fish. I remember her sitting at the old table in front of where the double screen door was. I remember her fishing. I remember her everywhere. I remember her sick. I remember her well. But I don't ever remember her sick on the island.

We called it "Camp." It was wonderful. The car ride there was something else though. My father drove a Caprice Classic. It was silver, but looking back, I think it was more described as "shiny primer gray." The interior was velvet, or as close to velvet as it gets. Dad cut down a piece of plywood to cover the back seat. He put a cooler on the hump. You know, the one between the floorboards in the back. He placed the plywood on top of the seat and cooler. Tah-dah, instant bed for the kids. It was great!

Looking back now, maybe it wasn't the safest thing in the world. But it made the long ride more tolerable. We would stretch out, heads at opposite ends and read. And read. And read.

I remember singing to the radio at times. I was painfully shy when it came to singing. Dad would say, "What is that noise? Buckwheat, is that you?" I never admitted to it, though I know my parents knew it was me. I wish now that I had the courage to sing out loud and strong as a child, but I hated my voice and knew that I could never sing "on key" like everyone else in the car.

Setting out from Arkansas to Canada was a trek. But once we got to the ferry, all the hotness of the car, the pent up frustrations of being in the car for so long, and any exhaustion we felt was washed away by the smell of diesel coming from the ferry's smokestack. We would board the ferry and wait. And every single time the captain blew the horn, it scared me.

I loved being on top of the ferry. There was always wind. There was a smell to the air, so familiar every time. It's the smell of the fresh water and wind. The smell of "Camp." There's no words to do it justice. And in all honesty, it's "my" smell....something I've only shared with my family. There's plenty to go around, but if I talk to my family, only they know what I am speaking of.

The water there is cool. So cool. On the ferry you can feel the spray in your face. Getting off the ferry leaves you with that cool feeling, damp but not really. Your hair feels like it's been blown for hours, but your cheeks don't feel windburned. You just feel good. Really, really good.

The drive to the cabin can only be described as winding. Straight, right, straight, left, straight, right, straight, left. And on and on for about 20 minutes until you reach 16 Line and hang a left. Down the dirt road a ways to the cow gate. There are no cows now, but when I was younger, there were tons. So many you had to be careful to avoid the cow poop when opening the gate. And once you drove through the gate, make sure you close the gate. Still now, even though there are no cows, you still have to close the gate.

The weeds and brambles don't reveal the treasure that lies within a walk from the water's edge. Driving down the gravel road yields unexpected potholes and limbs that bang on the car antennae. The hairpin curve to the left going downhill and then past Ice Cream Rock. You can see the clearing, the telephone pole, and then, "Camp."