Salute to Summer

Bright light pours through wooden-slatted Venetian blinds. A cacophany of bird chirps announce the morning. Alarm clock is off, there’s no need these days. Sheets are kicked to the extreme corners of the bed, rumpled in a cottony white mass. They cover toes during the night, and occasionally shoulders when a breeze blows through the windows. The windows are wide open, of course, mesh arms outstretched in anticipation of a cool embrace. Car doors slam, engines idle, neighbors talk.

The car is stuffy, the inside of an oven in preheat stage. The windows come down at once, there is no time to wait for the A/C to kick in. Drinks are on ice, resting comfortably in a blue and white cooler, the accessory you won’t leave home without for the next several months. You pull out a can, grimace and grin at the numbing sensation of ice water gripping your fingertips. A pop and a hiss, and you’re on your way to refreshment. Condensation slides slowly down the can. Icy droplets pelt your bare legs.

Dock creaks, sways gently with the tide. Jet engines roar in the distance, slight tang of jet fuel hangs in the air. Makes for a cloying scent, when mixed with the odors of algae and marine life. Boat putters, then stops. Engine is slow to start, out of practice. Motor finally turns over, and you’re on your way. Fine sea spray mists your face, upturned to the blue sky and benevolent sun. Your hair, mostly contained in a weather beaten hat, gradually sends stray pieces into the wind. They whip your face as the boat picks up speed and more wind. You brush the whipping strands back with a smile.

Water dares you not to come in. It’s cool, the current is calm. Come on in.
Off you go!

Motorboatin' Son of a Bitch

The boat sat parked in the street, resting its hulk upon the old trailer like a whale washed ashore. It took up a good portion of the suburban road, the way RVs overtake the cement driveways of houses out west. You can’t help but wonder, ‘who owns that?’

We do.

A couple months ago Mike and I, along with his cousin and his wife, went in together to purchase Mike’s uncle’s boat. To us, we were getting a fire-sale deal on an investment in summer fun. To his uncle, I think he felt he was finally ridding himself of a thorn that had been plaguing his side.

I have no way to prove it, but I suspect boat ownership is akin to having a child. You dream of all the fun things you’ll do together. Cruising! Water skiing! Tubing! You know that there’ll be work involved, but you’re fairly certain it will be worth it. You know that you’ll part with a good amount of cash, and then some more, and then some more. Those outlays will never be repaid, but you’re ok with it. The joys of boat ownership will far outweigh the hurdles you must leap!

Speaking of joy, is there more joy than assigning a namesake to your beloved? The name you choose is important. It will become a representation of you for all the world to see. The boat we bought was named Roxy, after the beautiful Boxer Mike’s uncle owns. Much as we love Roxy, now that the boat was ours we wanted a name that better represented us. We thought about ‘Four Friends.’ Admittedly not the most imaginative of names, but it was simple and true.

So how to replace ‘Roxy’ with our new name? Surely we’d need to paint over the old name, and paint on our new one. Mike took a closer look at the word Roxy.

‘I think these are just decals,’ he mused. ‘We can probably just pull them right off and then paint our name on.’

He fiddled with the letters for a bit, and then came to a startling conclusion.

‘This is just electrical tape! This will come off no problem.’ As a test, he pulled at the corner of the letter ‘R.’

Sure enough, it came off. And all of a sudden, the new name of our boat appeared.

Hot Time, Summer in the City

Today, as the thermometer climbed, and climbed, and climbed to cruel new heights, Mike and I decided it was time to figure out a pool plan for our summer lives. We've lived here nearly three years, it's time we knew where the hell we could go to take a dip.

Enter Google. Trusty, knowledgeable friend who always lifts you up and never lets you down. Or is that Bud Light? In any case, Google led me to discover a nice-looking public pool in nearby Long Island. Call me a snob but I just can't, I just won't, bring myself to go to a public pool in one of the boroughs.

So we hopped on the Long Island Expressway and - surprise!- it was a parking lot. As we crept along at 5 miles an hour I wondered if we would have been better off back on the couch. Soon enough though, the congestion cleared. Just your everyday, run of the mill 6 car pileup was holding up our pool progress. We soldiered on.

The pool was BIG, and so blue, and had diving boards! And lounge chairs! Mike kindly pointed out two chairs in the far corner. You know the shady spot that nobody wants? Well, that's the spot that I need. We set up our lounge area and all was fine and good until the gypsies showed up. Some shady looking Eastern Europeans asked if we could squeeze over a bit so they could fit their lounge chairs rightnextto us. We sneered. And then moved over.

Little by little the pool started filling up. Twenty different foreign languages could be heard floating through the air. I caught hairballs between my fingers while swimming a slow breaststroke across the width of the pool. A three hundred pound woman strolled into the pool in her itsy bitsy teeny weeny bikini.

We exchanged glances.
"Want to?"
"Yes, it's time," I replied. And off we went, back to the comforts of home.