Up the Lake Raft Battles Part 2

 

Click Here for Part One
 
On the attacking side there was frequently dissension in the ranks.  Often, the two Joes would argue over a raft until they would both hop on it and float aimlessly away, glaring vindictively at their team mate.  More often, they would splash each other a lot and the raft would ignore them while it sailed away unmanned like the “Demeter” from Dracula.
 
Our side wasn’t much better. Occasionally Ashley would switch sides, shoving my head under water when my back was turned and yell, “You can get him now, guys!”  Also, in order that Valerie did not ruin our fun by vanishing forever beneath the surface, she was wearing those inflatable arm bands commonly known as “swimmies” or “floaties” or “those inflatable arm bands.”  These provided her as much maneuverability and speed as normally displayed by the final Cheerio in a full bowl of milk. 
 
Usually at the end of one of these carefully choreographed battles:

...by the time the splashing and screaming subsided that is...

No one was on the raft they started on, at least two people were trying to clear the Lake out of their lungs, and some kid was making an effort to stand on top of me.  Finally, poor Valerie was normally bobbing somewhere out of harm’s way, yelling for someone to come get her, not realizing that she was the only one who didn’t almost drown.

 
There was one shining moment where we declared a truce to unite forces against a large and worthy target.  My teen-aged cousin Lauren and her friend Mary went out in the aluminum rowboat for an afternoon of sun.  I snuck up and caught them with my fins, while remaining below their vision line and had an entertaining time steering them opposite to the way they were rowing.  After commenting about "strong currents today, no?" I held them in place, while the rest of the raft driving Buccaneers eventually surrounded them.

 
Except for Ashley and Valerie, of course, who floated aimlessly in the breeze cheering and helping the attack when they blew towards the boat.
 
When all were in position, we laid siege until we were able to make off with their oars.  We, alas, did not realize that the goal of any teen-aged girl in a rowboat is to look cool, and soak up the sun like a lizard.  Sadly, the only reaction provoked by removing their propulsion was that they called me, “A big stinkhole,” and then just sat there pointing themselves skyward.  As this provided no entertainment, we returned the oars, and resumed our battles.
 
Another interruption would occur when, accidentally, or in a show of death defying bravado, someone would paddle a raft into the weeds.  Now, to a non Up the Laker the weeds would appear to be merely lily pads growing out of mud, and what kid would have problems with leaves and mud? 
 
However the stories of what lived in those weeds (fish, frogs, snakes, giant snapping turtles, leeches, Little Purple Men, Giant Demonic Sea Monkeys From the Nether Regions, etcetera.) caused problems. 
 
The reaction of most children to, “I’m going to throw you in the weeds,” was usually very similar to the reaction expected from telling them,  “I’m going to shove a rabid, hung over, foul smelling 'possum in heat in your bathing suit”.  
 
Logic would dictate that, on a raft, it would be easy to paddle out again.  But often the kid’s fear of the weeds would rapidly overwhelm logic, causing them to paddle with their hands up to a foot and a half out of the water, and yell “help” continuously, invoking a resemblance to a seal suffering from Parkinson’s disease in an aerobics class. 
 
As an eventual member of the Honorable Circle of Weed Swimmers
(Beach balls and small children rescued: 

Hear our battle cry -

“Ewwwwwww that was really gross!”)
I repeatedly had to swim in and pull them out.  Swimming at full speed through the weeds with fins on caused enough turbulence that I ended up with lily pads in places I didn’t even know I had places. The rescued child would often thank me by tossing some upturned weeds on my face, causing me to push them back in to the lilies, and start the process anew.
 
Once the kids passed through the 3 stages of cold: 
(A) Me- “Your lips are blue, wanna get out?”
Them...”No”
(B) Me-“You’re shivering, wanna get out?”
Them- ”Nuh-nuh-nuh-No”
(C) Them- “I’m freezing, I wanna get out”
Note- Stage “C” occurs thirty seconds after Stage “B.”
 
The day’s war games ended as we headed in, stopping briefly so I could throw the Joes in a couple hundred cannonballs.
 
Honestly, if a shotput weighed fifty pounds and screamed, I’d have been a starter in the Olympics.
 
There were also the occasional “overhead flip” originally patented by Little Rich and myself and the “Super Joey” wherein I would military press the kid over my head just long enough for them to yell, “Look Mom, I’m flying!” before I tossed them into a dive.
 
I never saw the attraction, but they seemed to enjoy it over and over (and over and over) again.  No wonder I didn’t have to swim as much back then to stay in shape.
 
That was the final big hurrah for the Lake that year.   For a lesser hurrah,  Joe and Ashley decided they wanted one last swim after it got dark.  I took them down to the Lake, because their parents were smarter than me, I guess.  After entering the (impossibly) colder water, they asked if I would swim out to the middle with them.  My sister, who came just for the walk since she was also smarter than me, thought she heard a car coming down. Instead of calling out the simple recommendation that we, “swim in,” she instead decided to use the much more obvious statement, “Something just jumped out there!” 
 
It was oodles of fun trying to navigate back in through the dark and frigid water with two children standing on my back and doing the equivalent of a high speed panicked “Macarena”.  As we got in I did see headlights starting to come down.  The old instincts took over and I yelled, “Go go go!” and made a bee line to hide in the woods.  Half way there I realized that I was not ten years old, and somehow had turned into a recognizable adult. Therefore we were not going to get “in troooouuuuuuble!” 
 
We dried off, thawed out, and walked back to the cabins to play some cards, and pass out from exhaustion for the last time of the season.
 
Closing and packing up was made interesting, as always, by the four ways to do any Up the Lake job: 
I) The right way,
II) The wrong way,
III) My Mother’s way,
IV) My Father’s way. 
 
As none of these have anything to do with the rest of the list, it was always a pleasant and festive atmosphere to work in, and lessened the impact of the annual tearful good byes.

Up the Lake Index

Disclaimer- After all the crap that happened (and continues to happen) this past year, nothing I could think of would be worthy of an APRIL FOOL.   Maybe next year.