Four fifths of August had passed. A subdued summer was offering the gift of one last loving embrace before the mists of September mornings would steel the lake water. I eagerly accepted and carried my windsurfer down the greying cedar boardwalk to the sands of a still warm shore. The mid-evening sky, blushed with maple and raspberry syrup, hinted that the curtain of night was ninety minutes shy.
The upturned nose of my windsurfer cut through the inky lake chop with ease. My board hummed happily and my sail shivered with excitement. The day was still very much alive, though the mistral of the afternoon was clearly preparing to retire. I felt lucky to have this moment to myself, yet profoundly sad that not one other soul, save a gull or two, would share it with me.
I've grown accustomed to sole ownership of Washademoak Lake. I live in a place where people may look lovingly at her waters, but seldom do they dip their oars in the uncharted evening. It's a shame, but how could my world ever compete with a hot meal and the six o'clock news? Apparently, after years of observation, it can't.
This point was driven home recently in Dartmouth. While driving along a busy residential street on a picture perfect evening, I saw the eerie glow of Atlantic Canada's most watched starlet, Steve Murphy, emanating from almost every home and apartment.
Dare I suggest that we've lost touch with the sun, sky and moon, with far too much focus on the stars. What follows the ATV News? ETalk. Nuff said, now grab a paddle and spank yourself, then start rowing.