Down At The Dock

I walked up to the booth.

Hey Summers, I'd like to take out a boat.

A boat. A boat. He looked at me and waited for me to say what kind of boat (one person, two, four, kayak, canoe). I looked back at him helplessly.

An Aero? he suggested.

That's it, I said. I started to explain how I was thinking Athena, but he was already telling me that there was an Aero available down at the dock.

I got a pair of oars from the boat house and walked to the boat. Summers was helping someone at the other end of the dock. Wait. Summers was up in the booth. Wait. That wasn't Summers in the booth; that was Joe. I just cooked chicken fajitas with Joe last weekend. I know Joe. Why did I call him Summers!?

I set down my oars and went back up to the Booth. Joe watched me as I approached.

I called you Summers, I said. He looked confused. Joe, I called you Summers a minute ago. I don't know what I was thinking.

Oh that's ok. I didn't even hear it. He said.

And so I went out on the lake.

It was a windy day. The turtles didn't mind it, nor did the male wood duck lit by the late afternoon sun that flew by me as I rowed by the cliffs just downstream of Redbud Island. But getting back to the dock was an interesting exercise in balance as the wind at my back the waves slapping against the side of the sculling shell suggested it was time for a swim. Still, I made it back -- dry.

As I tied on, Joe and Summers walked up.

Hey, Robert. How was the row? Joe asked.

I looked up at them. Joe's face betrayed nothing.

David, I said.

He laughed and apologized. Summers smiled.

These guys either have the same memory challenges I do[*], or they have a good sense of humor. In either case, I think I'm going to like it here.

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