Rain. Who knew. I guess you have to have some rain on every vacation. Not a problem. We’ll work around it. My biggest fear during the night as I lay awake at 2:30 was that the boat was not secure or that the buoys were not properly placed to prevent banging up the side of the boat. There was a storm coming up out of the south and the waves were making a racket in the cove right outside the bedroom window. The only way for that to happen was to have the wind blowing out of the south and into the cove at a 45 degree angle. That could only mean that the boat too was subject to the same winds and waves.

I put on my shorts and grabbed a light and made my way down to the dock. Everything was secure as I suspected and any thoughts I had about the rope ripping off the cleat on the tree were indeed misplaced. I nudged one of the two buoys slightly to the right, gave the lines an extra cleat’s worth of protection, snapped those snaps not yet snapped on the cover of the boat since I could see the wind getting under the cover on the lakeside of the boat, and then the rain starting to come down. First in sprinkles. Then in sheets. Then in horizontal sheets. Rain has a way of robbing the wind of its velocity. I’m not sure why I know that but it seemed to be working better than expected as I crawled back into bed a mere 10 minutes after I crawled out of it. Then it was off to sleep. One eye at a time.

I’m usually better than that. After two ours sitting out on the bay in the early morning hours here on Lake George I had not a bite. Not one. The fish populations of Lake George must be seriously depleted. Forget the trout, bass, and Northern Pike. I couldn’t get a frigging sunfish to take my bait. I don’t think that has ever happened to me. It couldn’t be me. There’s nothing inherently wrong with my technique. Or, is there? Maybe I’ve lost my touch. Maybe my instincts are not what they used to be. This is why I need to come back to Lake George at least once a year. Yes, family is important, but rebooting on a personal level requires more sometimes. It requires a connection to roots meaning places as well as people and things.

It is just important to me to be able to drive around the back streets of Glens Falls as it is to take the occasional drive down Bean Road here in Katskill Bay. It is just important to me to be able to travel the distance to St. Alphonsus school from Lincoln avenue which I used to walk as a youngster with my brothers and sisters. Day in and day out. Week in and week out. Year in and year out. I can’t see any of the faces anymore and even the voices have faded. No amount of driving that route will ever bring them back. I still remember, and will likely never forget, carrying the books of Mary what’s-her-name while walking her home from school. Her face is less clear but I can see her school uniform like an indelible dream in all of it’s plaid and pleated glory. We were lovers and didn’t even know it. I will likely never forget passing by Barber’s Market at an hour when they were putting the early morning papers out for display, or stopping in the store near the school on the way home every day. They had a great selection of comic books and one of those old Coke bins full of ice and soda bottles. Those were the days before cans and refrigeration units with sliding glass doors. I can still smell the halls of the old school and hear the echo’s of the nun’s heels traipsing up and down the stairs muffled only by the flailing hems of their black robes. That was an institution of God and learning and not necessarily in that order. When they built the new school, it was the beginning of the end.

It is no surprise that the boat is an important part of the boy’s salvation here on the lake. I returned from my miserable fishing trip only to find them sitting in a fetal position side by side on the dock. They were not knowing what to do with themselves which is not uncommon for boys that age. Knowing full well how to get their attention, I told them to get themselves together and I would take them out on the boat for a little of this and a little of that. It was the perfect antidote. It would give Nancy a chance to go for her walk and have just a little time to herself to do a few things of her choosing. I took the boys skiing just outside the 5 mph zone here in at the Island and that seemed to me to be the most economical thing to do. I make an effort, because the price of gas is so exorbitant, to incorporate either skiing or tubing into every trip we make to and from Sandy Bay. Did I tell you that it’s grand to be able to see Sandy Bay from the camp? Buoys 2 and 4 are clear. Let’s go, boys, before the 3:15 crowd shows up and there are no buoys left. We ended up finding one of the submerged buoys yesterday when there were no others available and we found it on the first pass. We were the envy of others waiting in line for a buoy and before long they too were cruising in circles hoping for something serendipitous. Good luck.

It was like a scene out of “Sea Hunt.” We no sooner found ourselves hovering over the cement block sitting in a sea of golden sand a mere 7 feet beneath the glistening surface then the boys, with rope in hand, hurled themselves over the side and down to the block. Good job, lads, I thought to myself. How lucky am I to have a couple of sea otters as mates aboard the good ship Popeye in such perilous waters. We were but a stiff breeze away from brushing up side one of the other boats and it was tight. The boys, as nimble as boys can be beneath the water towing a 3,000 lb boat, made surprising progress for being in water a good 2 feet over their heads. One might have thought they were diving for pearls in the South Pacific if you were looking for a parallel experience and associated intent. They took their job seriously and with it came success. Job well done, lads, as I threw them a mackerel for their efforts. Otters lover mackerel, I’m told. They then disappeared towards shore and like a couple of Greco Roman wrestlers (Nancy’s words, not mine), you could see them squaring off against the backdrop of the shoreline bramble which is considerable this time of year. Hand-to-hand combat and headlocks were the preferred weapons and it was a death match of epic proportions. Nancy worried that the small cluster of children nearby, the only others in that far and away from the maddening crowds, might find Evan and Noah’s behavior interesting at best, perhaps threatening, and maybe even a little scary. They drew closer to the attending parent as one boy after another was taken down in a flurry of white water and anguishing but muffled cries once below the surface. Nancy and I waded back towards the boat deciding that it was “all good.” These are their words; not ours.

I’m just in the wrong place at the wrong time with my camera this vacation. The same can be said for me and my camcorder. It just isn’t happening. Where was I when the boys swam across the bay to the Elisabeth Island? I was asleep. Where was I when they were doing their boarding moves up and down the railings, fences, and stone walls of Lake George Village? I was right behind them and my camera was at home. Where was I when we sat down to a very late breakfast at the Lone Bull in Diamond Point? I was camera-less once again thinking that it might rain and not wanting to get the bloody thing wet. There is a serious conspiracy afoot. I will wake up one day wanting to make a DVD of our summer vacation and not have nearly the footage or the photos in hand to do the job. What have I been thinking? Is it not the job of the photojournalist to carry the camera with him day and night, night and day? Indeed it is. I will pay for this mistake and it will cost me dearly. Maybe I can make up for it by weeks end. Time will tell.

I worry too that Nancy will not get her due this vacation week. It’s hard to know what, if any, mission statement might best describe her goals this week. That aside, she has expressed none. I do ask from time to time if she is having a good vacation and she assures me that she is. I worry that taking such a rigid position as I have on using the dish detergent she chose at the store, which I hate because it is simply too perfumed, leaves that chore exclusively to her. Is that fair, I ask you. I am cooking more because I can and that may be enough to even out the division of labor if that is what she seeks. Maybe she looks at all the time I spend taking the boys here and there in the boat knowing full well that it is the one activity that she has no desire to share in. That may help to balance the scales. I hadn’t thought of it until now. She certainly enjoyed herself in Sandy Bay yesterday when we paid our daily afternoon visit there with the boys. Her leisurely leg kicks in the water beneath her blue cap and sunglasses were telltale of easier times and it gave me pleasure to know she was enjoying herself even if she never said so herself. Absent anything definitive or otherwise declared, it is a truism that if she gets her walks in; her blueberries daily; her boys fed and put out to play; and is she hasn’t misplaced one or more of her prized or necessary possessions, then it will qualify as a good vacation. This summer, you can add a daily dose of Chuck Prophet to list. The one musician, in fact, that she will go to see in concert. Do add the Post Star on weekdays and the New York Times on Sunday to that wish list as well. She is becoming less mysterious by the moment. Don’t you think?