Waterskiing in a pond
Jesus may have spent his summers walking on the Sea of Galilee, but home in the north country we can do the Savior one better: water skiing.
Nothing is more Minnesotan than being yanked around one of our 10,000 on two pieces of wood, waving to sunbathing bikinis and eating a few gallons of water after a “Oh, no he didn’t” tumble. Invented more than 90 years ago on Minnesota’s Lake Pepin, water skiing came to define the summers of my youth. From May till September, Minnesota to Wisconsin, my best friend Rob and I chased boats, looking for that one good tow.
To the uninitiated, the experience of being risen from water behind the fumes of a 90-hp Evinrude motor is at once exhilarating and liberating. Slicing through a lake’s placid water at sunset, the plaintive call of the loon echoing in the distance, was the high we sought. Years before, my dad did the same summer skim after his father was introduced to the sport by a playboy insurance salesman. While we Andersons were more subdued on skis, my father could execute the trick of slaloming on one ski while holding the rope with the other foot, a trick Rob or I have yet to master.
Sadly, it appears that tubing, a sport that requires nothing but strong white knuckles, is the tow of choice for most of today’s youth. Water skiing takes time and much failure to “get up,” and family leisure time on a lake is certainly in short supply. The hours my father spent circling me in a boat, coaching me out of the water, might have been better spent elsewhere. Then again, no one said becoming Christ-like was easy. Eat my wake, Satan.