Water

Water has always had a powerful draw on me. As often as I can, I seek out the shore - watching, walking, thinking, reading, learning, and often, just listening. I can look at my watch and 30, 60, or more minutes will have passed as I watch the flight of cormorants or listen as the waves rush in and out, slapping against the sandy beach. For months, I have watched a pair of osprey nurture their young - two babies that are now almost as large as their parents I know one day soon the nest will be empty, but for now, wanting to see them one more time, their family unit still intact, even as the babies practice flying, seeking independence, I am pulled back to check on them several times a week. This morning, although I watched them for an hour, I only saw three.

Every trip is different: the tides, the sun, the clouds, what I see and what I take away. The same spot is a vastly different landscape depending on the tide. High tide is lush and full but low tide uncovers . . . revealing what lies below.

My favorite place at the Lake is sitting on the screen porch watching the water. Some mornings, if the breeze is quiet and no fishermen have visited our cove yet, I have the gift of two sunrises. One cresting the distant mountains and a second, a perfect reflection upon the still water. For a moment, it is difficult to tell one from another; then, there is no confusion between the two as the porch fills with glorious morning sunlight, hinting at a host of possibilities on a hot August day.

Water grounds me. Water soothes me. Water excites me. Water humbles me.

Three summers ago, I got into trouble in the water at the Lake. I had spent hours in the warm water in the cove. Over time, I had moved away from out dock. There was no water activity; it was a weekday, in late August, and very few houses were occupied. I didn't have to watch for boats, or jet-skis or paddlers. The entire cove was mine. Late in the afternoon, dark clouds appeared simultaneously with a crack of thunder that rolled above me. Fearful of lightening, I began to swim back. Within minutes, I knew I couldn't reach our dock before the storm clouds opened. I called out but knew no one could hear me. My husband or son would look for me, but I didn't think it would be soon enough. I had already swallowed a great deal of water and was having difficulty breathing. I was in serious trouble. And then, I panicked. I went under and came up, gulping in water, thrashing as I tried to move toward my house. Just then, I knew to look left. It wasn't a booming voice or some odd visual event --- in that moment, I just knew to look left. A broken dock, low in the water, was visible. With difficulty, I moved toward it and clung to the edge as soon as I reached it. I couldn't catch my breath, I could only take a shallow puff without pain gripping my chest. I struggled to get out of the water and stumbled up the pitched, rocky yard toward the dirt road that lead back to my house. I fell several times; I was cold and wet, pine needles, leaves and dirt clung to me. I collapsed on a rock, coughing up water as I tried to catch my breath. My driveway was in sight but I couldn't make it. A car came down the road and stopped when they saw me. The woman asked if I was hurt. I nodded and asked her to get my husband as I struggled to tell her my house number. The woman hurried toward my house. The man helped me into his car, backed down the road and turned into the driveway as my husband ran to meet the car. For hours, he sat beside me as I coughed up water.

Water gives and takes.

Each season, several lives are lost on the Lake. For a moment, mine was in the balance.

Water grounds me. Water soothes me. Water excites me. And, water humbles me.