When I got home, I ate a quick lunch. It was probably something equivalent of a box of Kraft macaroni, cookies and two or three pieces of fruit. I then left in my parents 1987 Toyota Camry (which I never filled with gas in the two years I drove it) and headed towards “Wetmore’s Landing” (a beach on Lake superior near the city of Marquette). The road was curvy but well paved. I accelerated out of the corners like a somewhat conservative Indy driver.
When I reached the sandy and shaded parking lot, I stashed the keys and my driver’s license under the floor mat and grabbed my towel and ever present Frisbee. I then walked down the familiar narrow path to one of the typically beautiful south shore of Lake Superior beaches of white sand streaked with black iron ore.
When I reached it, I met with one of my friends and a group of his friends. We played a little bit of Frisbee and ran furtively in and out of the freezing water. It was the type of clear cold water that if you stood in it for more than two minutes, you couldn’t feel your feet but you had no difficulties seeing them turn a strange blue.