Summer Place

Enough already with the astonished gasps and feigned disbelief. Is it really too much to comprehend that during the past 14 years, I haven't had the slightest inclination to wiggle even my bitty toe in the waters of Lake Mead?

Let's see, there's a war raging. The government is out of control. If that isn't enough, now that Friends is over, we have to make peace with never knowing for certain whether Ross and Rachel actually make it work this time. And despite all of this, you expect me to believe you're genuinely concerned that I haven't taken a dip in the lake?

Refresh my memory, please: Who's the one with the issues here?

If you must know (and I'm guessing by your inability to leave me alone that's the case), my trepidation can be summed up in one word: carp.

Have you seen the ugly, behemoth buggers that call Lake Mead home? That's a rhetorical question, of course; they're impossible to miss as they flop around in the shallow waters. I'm not so much frightened by the fish as I am utterly repulsed by their hideousness—hard to believe since I spent childhood summers swimming in the toxic cesspool that is LA's Santa Monica Bay, where untold schools of three-headed mutants undoubtedly reside.

Nevertheless, the stomach-turning sites and sounds experienced during my first visit to Lake Mead Marina more than a decade ago have planted themselves in my psyche. Even before I reached the dock, I could hear splish-splash-sploshing sounds and saw a small crowd gathering. There they were: dozens of bug-eyed carp dog-piled on the lake's surface. The sun glinted off their gray-green bodies as they writhed in an endless knot, kicking up water while scrambling for any and all morsels—stale bread, old popcorn, the occasional tourist—that passersby routinely toss their way. What did me in, though, was the cacophony of sucks and slurps emanating from their giant, gaping mouths as their fishy lips slapped together. Fearing I'd toss my cookies on the spot (and then have to watch the scavengers retrieve them), I hotfooted it back to the car.

Years later, I'm still at a loss to explain why these creatures of the not-so-deep rattle me. In fact, just recalling their revolting habits has made me queasy. So, unless you care to view the contents of a big ol' bucket of carp bait, I'd suggest turning away that perplexed head of yours.

The water, brackish and green, lapped up against my window. I felt the car rolling backward, and I watched the sky disappear. I expected to see sea horses down there, and perhaps I did, since I've been repeatedly told that this was only a childhood daydream, and in childhood daydreams, theoretically at least, anything ought to be possible. Stubbornly, though—because I am stubborn about nothing so much as my illusions—I choose to believe the whole thing was real: that my father really did back the old tan Ford into the lake with me in the back seat, and that I really did get a glimpse of the grubby undersea, which, if you know anything about Lake Mead, could not have possibly had any sea horses.

After repeated cross-examination of my parents, I can certify one thing as true: When I was 3 or 4 years old, my father really did put a car into reverse and drive it into the lake. The story, which makes perfect sense, if you're interested in that sort of thing, is that our small powerboat (named by my sister, with a '70s consciousness that becomes more appealing as the years go by, "Peace Chief") was hitched to the back of the Ford, and my father was supposed to be backing it, and not the car itself, into the lake. Apparently, my father went too far. The official story also includes this salient bit of information: I was, at the time, not in the car, but already in the boat. Well, hooray for the official story. But if I was in the boat that day, I do not, as the politicians say, have any recollection of it. Or, more to the point, I have no recollection of not being in the car.

When I was very young, I loved the lake, the hot sand, the cool, smooth, shallow-water rocks that bruised my bare feet. I loved the dock, which seemed always to sway and squeak. I loved the little snack shop there. I loved the tubes of Ghirardelli Flicks I bought at the little snack shop. I kept those tubes long after their contents had been devoured. I sniffed the tubes while sitting in a red vinyl seat as the boat zipped along. I brought the tubes home and sniffed them and smelled not only chocolate, but the lake itself. All of this is true; why shouldn't my undersea voyage be true, too? When I was 5 or 6, my father sold the boat and my brother and sister started playing tennis and we never went to the lake anymore.

As for the tan Ford, Dad somehow got it out of the water. He parked it in the sun. It dried out.

I should come see you, Lake Mead. I should just do it, just go. Pack a liter of sunscreen, an ice chest, 23 sodas, a sandwich, maybe a flotation device of some kind and just go. Oh, and a hat! Because it's been so long since I've been. Because isn't that the point of summer, to end every day happily pan-seared in your own juices? Because I remember the old days when I spent a lot of time with you: How one night, I woke up on your shore in the middle of the night to see a blood-red moon hanging fat and close over the still water, nearer than Boulder City. Because another night I woke up next to the preacher's daughter, and while nothing happened, something could've, and isn't that what summer's all about? Because I still recall what it's like to cliff jump from that ledge on that island, and I'm thinking I might like to try it again.

But my back hurts. These knees—not in such good shape. This physique—not for public display. So we both know I probably won't visit, don't we, Lake Mead? I mean, there's air-conditioning here. Refrigerated air! And a long day of scary-bug movies on Sci Fi. And a distinct shortage of beery Californians in noisy power boats. No one else I know is going, either; my friend Steve, the lake rat, hasn't dropped his boat in your water for, I think, two years, and Tim just sold his. Sure, you promise fun, but I've got some work to do, so I roll out of bed, shower, skip breakfast, peck my groggy wife, let the dogs out and hit my desk by 6:30, 7. And that's a Saturday, Lake Mead, a day off. You wouldn't wanna know me on a Wednesday. Anyway, as the Greeks said, you can't step into the same lake twice. Actually, they said that about a river, which works better as a metaphor for memory because the water's flowing, but whatever. I get what they meant: Who wants to suffer sunburn, smelly water (no offense!), dead carp, floating trash, shoresful of basting cellulite and boatsful of beery Californians just to dwell on big red moons of the past and the melting defenses of preachers' daughters? Not me, Lake Mead. So I don't think I'll be renewing our acquaintance.

Unless, of course, the kids want to see you again; in that case, forget I said anything.