Maybe Not Mark Spitz

 Maybe Not Mark Spitz



     We are heating up here in So Cal and I can't help cast longing thoughts toward the cooling waters of Squam Lake. I am remembering an event with some humility that took place out in the lake during one of my early trips to Bear Cove. The thing about camp is sometimes physical strength and  stamina would be tested and you never knew what kind of shape you were in until you took out a kayak or tackled a trail with some unknown altitude. You really had to dig in a bit sometimes or look ahead huffing and puffing at one of women or children in front of you who had not even broke a glow. On this Summer's idyll Emily's daughter was joining the fun with her very cute and very tattooed friend. They brought youthful energy and were young enough to cause camp men to hold in their bellys when taking to the water in sagging trunks. I was able to tolerate that first invigorating leap into the cool water and make the short swim to the float without being completely done in so I hung on the ladder and gazed out at one of the markers some fifty yards away out in the deeper water. It seemed to me that I could make it to the marker and hold on to it while I recovered my wind to return to the float where the young lovelies stretched out gabbing and soaking in the New Hampshire sun. Remembering what they taught me at the South Gate plunge I stroked out toward the marker and realized it was farther out than I expected but a few more gutty strokes would get me there with some gasps of breath. How-fucking ever, when I reached the marker, now pretty much spent with my more than middle-aged arms like noodles I reached for the floating object and found it would not support my weight. As a matter of nautical fact it would not support a kitten. I sunk in panic when I reached for support. Turning toward the float ladder that seemed several miles away I had a choice. I could turn my lungs inside out and churn for solid salvation, drown in seven feet of water or cry out like a wimp to the girls and be rescued by women administering to a poor old fart. It was touch and go for half of the desperate journey. At this point my body was a side of beef with little feeling or navigational skill. Yet, plunging on I made it to within  ten yards and just barely grabbed the ladder wheezing and puffing like a winded walrus. I thought I would puke and was seeing spots before my eyes but my main concern was to hide the fact of my gasping from the young ladies. They continued their girl talk and I fought to remain alive with a sobering lesson in my quivering biceps.

                                              

                                                           son of a bitch!

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