A Memory: Maine Summers

Dave LOVED Maine. He always enjoyed our family’s house there a lot more than me. He loved that it was away from the madness of NYC. He loved to fish and snowmobile and kayak. He loved to invite his friends for a vacation and have a good time up there together. In fact, he always declared that he’d retire in that house.

There was a while, before Dave and I moved out, when our family would spend most vacations in the Maine house. It would take me a while to stop being annoyed at the excruciatingly slow dial-up internet and the complete lack of cell phone reception (except for on that one rock!), but Dave always settled into his routine quickly. He’d have our parents drive him to Rusty’s to get lures and worms and then he’d set out planning how he’d catch the biggest salmon or trout, right off of the rocks at the edge of our property. He could spend hours on those rocks, despite the black flies and mosquitoes, protected by his fishing shirt and a hat, no matter the temperature.

When he didn’t fish off of the rocks, he and our dad might spend the day trolling the lake with the boat. Usually, if we went on the boat, we would leave at dawn, stopping to get freshly-made, still-warm donuts. On the occasions when I’d decide to fish too, I’d basically cast and hold the fishing rod, panicking the moment something actually bit. At that point, I’d hand Dave the rod and he’d handle it from there. But, it was the company that brought me out there, really. I didn’t care about the fish. There was something beautiful and soothing about just being out there with those two. If our mom joined, we usually didn’t fish. We’d just take a long ride in the boat, enjoying when our dad would go extra fast, loving when our German shepherd Quindy would take her spot at the head of the boat and bop around, completely fearless.

Occasionally, Dave would convince me to take out the kayaks, with all of his fishing gear, to go try to catch something a little further out from the rocks. It was always quite the adventure: loading the kayaks, pushing them out into the water and climbing in without the whole shebang turning over. We didn’t have a dock, the rocks were uneven and slippery, so this was all a lot harder than might be imagined. We’d then row out, position our kayaks right next to each other, kind of securing them to each other by placing the oars over the kayaks. Then, we’d sit there, fishing, chatting, and letting the lapping waves carry us wherever. I don’t remember us catching much like this, but when something did occasionally bite, the whole set-up was precarious enough that the kayak might tip over!

When the mood struck us, we’d sometimes kayak along the shore for a little excursion to this shallow, marsh-y area. There the lake would be completely still, with the trees and sky reflecting brilliantly in the water. It was probably some of the most undisturbed and beautiful wilderness that was easily accessible to us. We’d see bald eagles or moose or other wildlife. By the time we’d head back home, our arms would be tired and we’d alternate between quiet, steady rowing and frenzied competition to prove our rowing prowess to each other.

By the time we’d get home, our mom and dad would have probably have fired up the grill and made some cajun shrimp or blackened salmon, and maybe we’d all watch a VHS rented from the little store in town.

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