July meant freedom, nothing to prove, no one to please

7 long hours in the old red Buick station wagon was worth the skin bruising pain of sticking to those plastic covered seats. No air conditioning back in the early 60’s. Three brothers and I, plus a dog or a cat, bounced along the bench seat of that old car, no seatbelts securing anyone.

Sometimes there was a trailer full of “stuff” that we all imagined we needed. There were even scary moments in the otherwise exhaustively dull hours. One year the U-Haul was loaded poorly, and once up to speed on that cement poured turnpike, my dad held on for dear life as it bounced from left wheel to right, threatening to flip itself and our car. A couple hours of unloading, repacking and sweaty, hungry kids standing in the turn out lane on the highway meant an angry Dad and quietly tearful Mom.

Yet arrive we did.

Matt Smythe from Caravan Writers Collective sent out a prompt asking us to write about summer. Keuka Lake in Hammondsport, (Upstate NY) will always be my home.

We had boats: a sailboat, a row boat, a canoe, and a ski-behind boat. Some years there was a Boston whaler, others a kayak. Being in or on the water was the goal of every day

My Aunt Jane, Uncle Harry and their friend Lawrence Smith from the cove, circa 1930, heading out in “The Angela” on the lake.

Sailing was my freedom. I learned how to play the wind upon my sails around the age of nine. Life vest or buoyancy belt tossed in the foot hold of the boat meant it was time to push off.

“Grandma? How long will the wind be up?” She would look at the sky above the hills across our lake and somehow knew exactly.. “go now, and get back in a short time, its going to die soon and you’ll be becalmed, needing a tow. We’ll keep an eye on you and come get you.” or “that wind’s going to blow all day. Wear your life vest and take the leather gloves”. We knew she was magical, and she was always right.

The day had officially begun.

Sundays were “race days” where at least five classes of sailboats raced up and down the lake. Depending on what direction the wind came from, the yacht club dropped its buoys for the sailboats to round. Our lakefront was often the exact spot a buoy was dropped, and the clank of the rigging would sound just after we heard the captain shout his Ready About. The magnificent simplicity of sailing, the mastered skill of harnessing the wind still calls me.

M Skows racing typical Sunday 2017

It was a wild unnameable power to play with the wind in my sails. Out on the lake I had the quiet to think. No questions to answer, no nagging chores to finish, nor other people’s plans. I was me, without the risk of being teased or scolded. Some days I sang as I sailed.

Everyone came out to watch the Sunday races. The tradition never faltered thru all the years we summered there.

Grandma Hastings, Great Aunt Nanny and Uncle Harry circa 1930, watching the Sunday yacht races from our beach.

We were a sailing family, from my long gone ancestors to now. Every sailboat had its name. My favorites were always the smaller type that I could venture out on alone. Dad drilled into us the importance of going up wind first, tacking left and right sides, commanding “Ready about! Hard Alee!” even when alone.

Thunder storms could blow in without warning on “the lake” (we always called it that… the lake..). When they did, there was only one rule on the water: Get to shore immediately! It didn’t matter where you were along the lake, the closest shore was the only safe bet for escaping being struck when the mast became a lightning rod.

Lake people were friendly, enjoying the surprise of the temporary guests. Everyone would pitch in, pulling the boat up on the shale shore, then the ritual of offering coffee began. I loved those days on our screened in front porch. We could watch the storm move down the lake, cracking its lightning out on the water while we were safe inside.

Whenever I get homesick, when July is coming around, or a rare thunderstorm strikes our part of the state, it’s our cottage, “Someday”, that calls my heart.

Soundtrack for this summer post is Christopher Cross: Sailing

“Together” is a compilation of thoughts by Teyani Whitman. All posts are free, along with the first half of my book Staying Together. For every three monthly paid subscriptions of $5, I will donate $5 to the nonprofit, The Ocean Cleanup. Thank you for supporting both me and the amazing work of saving our oceans and rivers.