With Mike and Eliza in the midst of restoring an 1800s farmhouse, and Tyler and I busy hacking a homestead out of ten acres of land, we're trying to cram as much summer fun into one weekend as we can. It's our last day in Maine, and we've decide that a trip to a local swimming hole is just what we need to cap off the visit.
Mike and Eliza take us and Kit to their favorite lake, where we slip into the cool, crystal clear water. Heaven. We goof around and splash for the sheer joy of it. We do hand-stands, and tell stories that make us double over with laughter, and squeal when tendrils of lake weed touch our legs, joking that they're the tentacles of a sea creature.
Eventually, it's time to head back to Mike and Eliza's place, so we pad our way through the sun-dappled pine forest, back to the car. There's one last summery event of this weekend vacation we need to accomplish: getting ice cream. We linger at the counter, tasting countless options before eventually committing to our flavors. I enjoy a "small" cone (which is gigantic), on which perches two whopping scoops of rapidly-melting ice cream: cookie dough, and black raspberry.
Now, it's late, and we're listening to This American Life as we make our way home to the woods. We should arrive around 1:00 in the morning. By tomorrow, probably around 10:00 AM or so, the bugs and the sweat of our dirty life will eradicate all signs of the shower I took after our lake swim. There won't be ocean swims or ice cream. Rick will visit, and work will resume.