Gull Rock

Because of my post yesterday in which I confess that I need a swimming lesson, my sister--the one who swims, not to be confused with the one who runs, which I suppose makes me the one who skis--suggested we swim together this summer at the lake where we spent our summers. She suggested laps out to "Loon Rock," which could mean either of two prominent fixtures I refer to as "Gull Rock" and "Turtle Island" on the lake.

Gull Rock and outboard. Bad picture.

When my sisters and brothers were kids, back when Hotel California was on constant rotation as a current rock song on BLM and everyone seemed to be driving Camaros (Camaroes? Eh. Tomato, tomato.) and smoking pot, my parents created a rule that you could not be alone in our little lake boat--a fiberglass something powered by a 65-hp Mercury--without a life jacket unless you could swim to Gull Rock. It was a small island about a quarter of a mile from the house inhabited by laughing gulls that would shriek if you got too close, swoop down threateningly, and ultimately shit on your head.

It was a perfect landing spot for someone who wanted to prove something.

The swim to Gull Rock became almost like the Bar/Bat Mitzvah for our family. The age to drive a boat alone was 12, so that was the age my siblings gave it a shot. My oldest sister--the one who swims and could for as long as I can remember--took the first plunge since she was probably about 14 when the rule was instated. My other sister paddled along beside her in an inflatable dinghy with giant plastic oars to make sure she didn't drown. If I remember correctly, and this memory could be hazy because I was probably about seven years old at the time and spending most of my days staring at conifer needles while daydreaming that Novia--the new boy in class--was going to show up at our summer house and tell me he loved me. As it was, the most attention I ever got from Novia was the day he sat on my chest in the recess yard at Center School and poked at my chin yelling, "You are ugly," until I ended up with a star-shaped scab that I picked mercilessly for days, trying to keep it raw because it was the only connection I had with him.

turtle island, much farther away

If I remember correctly, my sister didn't rest at Gull Rock, but rather flipped around and swam back to the house. Easy peasy. My other sister--the one who runs--was next to give it a try. Even I could tell that my other sister clung to the side of the inflatable dinghy the entire way to the rock, but she had passed the test.

My oldest brother turned 12 the next summer. He made it to the rock and nearly back to the bedroom he shared with my other brother, who was 11 at the time, before he hurled copious amounts of red and orange macaroni.

My other brother and I were never made to swim to the rock because by the time we were 12--he's four years older than I am--our parents had other things to worry about. My memory of my parents at the house is a vague slideshow--I see my mother playing solitaire on the front porch and sipping wine, but I don't know whether she drank that much wine. I hear the radio playing old country hits--Hank Williams, George Jones, Loretta Lynn. I imagine my father sitting at the table smearing Skippy peanut butter on Saltines and talking politics between sips of Coca-Cola out of tiny shrimp cocktail glasses. (This was before he was diagnosed with diabetes.)

By the time my mom had shuffled out her last game of solitaire, it was a given we could all swim.

But I really couldn't swim. I spent every summer during my teenage years in that little speedster boat, coming up with excuses as to why I couldn't join everyone at the rope swing ("I would love to but my dad says I can't") and why I couldn't waterski or kneeboard ("I injured my knee when I was younger and I can't do that kind of activity").

summer boy in the middle

Just before my freshman year in high school, I rode up to the lake house with my dad and my brother--the one who hadn't swum to Gull Rock--during Labor Day Weekend to shut down that house. I was feeling nostalgic because a summer boy had broken my heart. I'm certain he had blue eyes and dark hair, but I can't remember his name and I don't remember having any meaningful time with him. I spent the entire weekend outside, thinking he would somehow materialize near our house in his boat even though most of the boats had been hauled for the season. It was chilly--I think I first used that word that weekend, in fact--and the water was already cold.

My dad and my brother started arguing. Even though our house is directly on the water, I wandered down the road to the public beach near the house and walked into the water from there. Very slowly, I worked my way to Gull Rock, mostly the backstroke and breast strokes, sometimes the crawl, and never with my face wet or under water. I could hear only my breath. Hooo. Hoooo. Hooooo. Gradually, I got closer. I knew from sailing our Sunfish that the rock was surrounded by ledge, and I was careful not to scrape my knees.

The laughing gulls had vacated the rock for the winter and I hauled myself out of the water to survey the disturbingly quiet lake around me. My friends were gone. All the summer fellas were gone. I was in high school. My mother had recently been admitted into a convalescent care facility because she was in the final stages of MS. My dad and my brother continued to argue back at the house. I was cold and tired, but nobody knew where I was and I had to get back.

I eventually slid into the water, slowly swam back to the beach, and returned to the house in time to help pack up the trunk of the k-car with the last of the summer blankets. As we rolled over the needles in the driveway and headed toward Route 1, my brother turned the radio dial until he found a Quiet Riot song. My father pursed his lips and said nothing.