1980s, Lake Bomoseen, Vermont

By Amy Carboneau

At the lakehouse, moments are measured by light and dark, the sun, the moon, the stars, and time is a forgotten concept.

One night, just after the gleaming, we walked in processional down to the dock. My father led in the far distance, to prepare for us what needed to be prepared, because he likes to be in control, to make everything perfect. Then Carol, Justin, Sam and I followed in increments of both time and desire to go. I watched my naked toes slip from one piece of stone to the next as I descended the slate pathway, and I thought of the time my heel bled for two hours after hitting the corner of a thick slab, when I forgot to pay attention. There was never a scar, never the satisfaction of a true story; just a dark spotted trail leading toward the lakehouse, marking every other stone until the next day’s rain washed it free.

The slate tiles did not yet glow in the moonlight because the day was still ending and there was still a good 40 minutes before the stars would begin to appear. I reached the dock to see my father up to his waist in the water that was so warm just an hour before, but he shivered then in his swim trunks and sweatshirt. He untied the rope from the front of the boat, leaving the other end connected to the corner of trees just opposite the dock. When tied, the boat forms a cove between us and the greater part of the lake. With its bow pointed out, it rested parallel with the dock, close enough that we could slip in without first getting wet.

I let Carol sit in front even though I wanted to sit near my father. I never usually took the backseat because the wake splashed up over the side whenever the water was active. But the water had grown calm with night and I sat sprawled along the back’s edge, my head resting on the low cushion and my bare feet disappearing beyond the wooden side panel, out over the lake.

The motor started without a problem, which is rare, almost unexpected, and I stood to close the hatch overtop. The engine breathed heavily, showing no signs of dying, though we kept the paddles on the side just in case. Sam told the story of when Dad and Carol were stranded out in the water and forced to paddle a mile back to shore. We all sat still in the boat and listened, not yet moving. The only sounds around us that could be heard above the motor were the sounds of water pumping out the side of the boat and of the rope falling softly on the top of the water, plunking in tune with the pump, and maybe a few shallow voices coming from inside our lakehouse - from those who chose not to come tonight – voices which intensified as they were carried over the surface of the absent waves.

Justin gave a final push off the dock and we eased out into the night, skirting the water enough to make a ripple that the fish would have bitten at if it were daylight and they were hungry. My body grew chilled with the presence of a breeze, but my fingers kept warm as they were dragged along underwater, my arm hanging loose over the side. The wind was cool in the warm air and the sky perfectly clear when we shut down the motor. Somewhere in the middle of the lake, we looked up and waited, breathless, for the evening’s first shooting star.

Amy Carboneau grew up in Vermont and is now living in Boston, having graduated with a Bachelor’s Degree in English from Gordon College. This story is written about a familiar lakehouse on Lake Bomoseen, in Vermont, and one of many family traditions started there over the years.

Posted by Elizabeth Armstrong Moore on Tuesday, October 24th, 2006 | Email This Post

This entry was posted on Tuesday, October 24th, 2006 at 12:01 am. You can follow any responses to this entry through the RSS 2.0 feed. You can leave a response, or trackback from your own site.