These Trifling Adventures
The motor coughed, gurgled, and sputtered as it roared to life, the weak 10-horsepower engine vibrating softly as we squeezed into the small, twin-hulled Livingston.
Drifting away from the padded rubber that guarded the dock, I gripped the throttle that protruded from the black motor, goosed it to optimum power, and frowned in disgust as the boat continued at a crawling speed.
My three friends and I had seriously violated the fishing boat’s 300-pound weight limit, but with luck we would eventually reach our destination. Not that it mattered, for it was August at the lake, and time was virtually nonexistent.
Annoying Jet Skis swirled around the boat in creative patterns as we chugged onward. I gazed back at the dock, still clearly distinguishable from its surroundings, and chuckled. These trifling adventures dominate summers at Priest Lake, yet they manufacture unforgettable excitement.
Shooting BB-guns at pop cans in the woods, stargazing on the beach at midnight, fishing at twilight in the secret location without a catch, boat rides to nowhere, and listening to the beautiful melodies of a whimpering trombone across the lake — what else is there?
Someone had once told me of a hidden cove, shielded by an archipelago of random rock outcroppings and a colossal rope-swing nearby that swayed in the wind on stormy days. Visions of this mysterious place played in my head throughout the journey.
We passed a flashing beacon and Pinto Point became a scene in the back seat of my mind. Where is this bay? From my scant knowledge, this inlet sounds more of fairy tales than truth.
But, as if the little putt-putt boat sensed a riveting experience ahead, a high pitched wail escaped from its innards and a picture-book vista emerged from behind a wall of granite.
Spindly plants blossomed blurs of color at the water’s edge and an archaic pier rested atop a bed of silt. A cottage at the foot of a private forest glistened in the afternoon light, neon towels strewn across the beach.
A sudden stir of movement became entangled in the corner of my eye, and I turned to view a rope swinging above the head of a smiling child.
I was the last member of our crew off the boat, so I secured it to a crumbling pine as my friends rushed up the hillside to join the excitement.
At last, the legendary rope-swing had been found!
After a quick demonstration from two energetic children, we prepared for flight. From atop fallen timber, I climbed to the launch position, rope in hand, and took a deep breath. Below, down a scree of rocks, a shelf of scattered boulders jutted out into the lake. With sweaty palms, I grasped the knotted rope, closed my eyes, and jumped.
A rush of joy and fright burst through my nerves and I opened my eyes. Momentum pushed me beyond the rocky outcrop and I freed my hands, high in the air, falling wildly to my encounter with the water.
It stung my back and slapped my shoulders as I plunged into darkness. Fighting vigorously, I came to the surface, eyes wide. The thump-thump of my heart obscured all other sounds except that of the moaning rope-swing tree as it buckled back to its original state.
Climbing up the jagged embankment, I gaped at the impressive tether, and though I didn’t realize it at the moment, a new tradition had been born.
The last light of the day faded into a lavender-blue as it disappeared behind the mountains in the west. And as the first star of the night appeared in the sky, our little boat meandered into the anchorage, its home for the night.
Lamps flickered off in neighboring cabins, but a raging fire illuminated my friend’s living room like sunlight.
As soon as I stepped inside, I collapsed on a plastic-covered couch, my lifejacket still intact, and relaxed to the serene rhythm of the lake, for the night’s adventures were just beginning.