August 15, 1986
Dear Charlie,
I’m on Rock Island this week with mom, her friends, their kids, and of course, Jenny. We fell asleep last night to the lulling white noise of rain on the tent but my dreams are restless. Last night I dreamt I walked out onto Rock Island’s historical stone boat dock that Jenny and I are convinced is haunted. In the dream I was alone under the moonlight, sitting on the dock’s edge and watching my feet dangle above the dark water. There was no sound, not even the water lapping up against the stone, almost as if someone turned the volume off in my dream. I sat there for a long time staring at an oily, black reflection of my feet in the still water. Everything was dark ; even the dock’s light grey stones looked like charcoal. But like a novice painter not designating a light source, my nightgown was as bright as daylight—a celestial body in a puddle of black.
And then I saw another light, way below my dangling feet. A peaceful shape resting with Lake Michigan as its eternal blanket.
I got down on my belly and hung my head over the dock to see more closely. I felt magnetically pulled, the light of my nightgown searching for its other half. As I got closer the shapes became more defined. Bones. A man. Long femurs, large ribs, curled up into the quiet, protective shape of a fetus. Born a circle, we live ourselves into lines and then relinquish them back into a circle.
Although arms were curled peacefully in front of ribs, I was certain those same arms were reaching back up to me.
I love Lake Michigan the way I love Lake Winnebago. It’s not as familiar, usually only spending a week every summer splashing in its cool, deep waters. But these stretches of Mediterranean-blue lake days intimately weave themselves into my DNA. Mom and a few women friends organize a camping trip to Rock Island every summer. What begins as a feminist “we can do this without testosterone” challenge becomes an anticipated and adored annual gathering. Each mom plans a breakfast, lunch and dinner, or enough for a few days depending on how long a stretch we stay. This isn’t the pared down Outward Bound backpacking I will learn about in my late teens. There are no cars on Rock Island, but we aren’t roughing it by any stretch of the imagination. We drive caravan to the tip of Door County and take a car ferry to Washington Island. Then we park our cars and transfer our belongings to a passenger-only ferry that will finally land us on Rock Island. We bring coolers of food, have access to fresh water at the island’s boathouse pump and share outhouses with horse flies. Every day, eager limbs, wet beach towels and hungry bellies litter the campsite. Every night, pruned skin is warmed by fire and sweetened by marshmallow, friendship and song.
The water feels different on my skin than Lake Winnebago. It is silky, invigorating. I dive under and open my eyes, seeing at least ten feet below my toes. It’s cold but as soon as my head is wet, I acclimatize and float for hours, held by a body of water so giant and deep that it takes me a few moments to overcome my fear—but only a few moments. Once I am reacquainted with this distant relative, we are inseparable. I pull her mysterious waters into my dreams. I weigh down my sweatshirt pockets with her large, smooth stones. I sneak little sips of her impossibly clear body, pretending I’m drinking some exotic elixir of immortality.
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Schultz Lake!!! I also have fond memories in those waters - I remember it feeling so CLEAN compared to Winnebago. I also remember picking leaches off our legs too but never dissuaded us from endless play. So glad you have fond memories in water too and understand how deeply it shapes us. x
I wonder if you're aware of how moving the pictures are.