Remembering How to Fly: A Water Skiing Story

I watched my skis bob in the water a few yards ahead of me. The bright summer sun shone down on the lake and scattered rays of white across the top of the receding wake. My legs shook from all the energy I had just expended gliding across the smooth surface of the water, knees bent and back aching. I gasped for breath and then started laughing and hollering.

“Dad, I wiped out!” I yelled over the hum of the motor. I waved my hand in the air as my dad’s gray and red Lund turned in my direction. My son’s happy face poked out from the top of a towel with a big blue shark on it. The sun made his blonde curls look even lighter. He seemed to glow with a joy and a brightness all his own; his smile dazzled me more than the hot July afternoon. He had never seen his mom do something so silly (and perhaps a little embarrassing) before.

The outset of my skiing adventure began like a gentle breeze. I found the old white ski rope in the shed, tightened my life jacket to the perfect fit, carried my skis down the dock without tripping, and even remembered which ski fit which of my feet the best. The black neoprene felt soft and smooth and smelled faintly of must as I slipped in my feet. I moved my skis gently across the water as I prepared to take the plunge into the deep green. As my skis hit the gritty sand a cloud of silt whirled up from the bottom of the lake like a small hurricane. I felt the lake water cool as I walked toward the drop-off. Behind me I could see the path my skis had carved through the rough brown lake grass. Ahead of me my dad stood up in the boat swinging the ski rope in a wide arc above his head. He let go, and the rope sailed in my direction. It landed right in front of my face with a small splash.

“Hey!” I scolded. My dad smiled. We all like to tease each other in my family. I saw him turn to my son, but I couldn’t hear what he said next. I guessed something about holding on tight and staying seated while the boat was moving. My dad sat down and started the engine at a slow crawl. I felt the water move past my skis. I judged the current, balanced my legs, then slowly tipped to one side. Not ready. I lifted my skis up until just the fronts stuck out of the water. I braced my knees. I took a deep breath and reminded myself that skiing is like riding a bike–the skills come flooding back in an instant. I held that moment of confidence. Ready.

“Hit it!” I shouted as loud as I could. My dad turned the little black key. I heard the engine sputter and uproariously jump to life. I leaned back against the pull of the rope. My hands gripped the red rubber handle tighter as I rose up out of the water. Suddenly, and a little unexpectedly, I was flying.

I used to imagine what a bird might feel like soaring on the air currents and updrafts of the great world beyond our world. I could almost feel his happiness as he dipped and rose, down into valleys of vast space and then up mountains of water vapor and errant winds. How wild and free he must be–a true master of his domain, looking down on all other domains. Then, I learned how to water ski. I wondered no more.

I felt free as I soared over the worlds below the waves. I felt wild as the wind howled against my face, tugging my hair loose and tossing it around. I sped past cabins nestled in groves of pine trees. I watched irritated seagulls scream as the boat dislodged them. I watched the wake grow into sparkling mountains, freshly capped with white, and then fall into long and low blue-brown troughs. I wanted so much to skip over their peaks and then sail across the valleys like I used to do. It was so easy when I was young. Wasn’t everything?

My dad began to turn the boat to the left, back toward the dock and back toward the ground. I knew my time was limited. My heart raced from exhaustion and anticipation. I loosened the flex in my knees just slightly and angled my skis toward the wake on my right. I felt the pressure of the water rushing below my skis and the small rise just before the crest. I shot over the top of the wake like a fish breaching the surface of the water. For a brief moment I was suspended in the air, an earthly part of the vastness of the sky. Then my skis hit the water a little awkwardly. My tired legs barely held onto their hard-fought balance. I could feel my stamina waning.

My Dad continued in a half-circle pattern until the nose of the boat directly faced the dock. Once again I loosened the muscles in my legs. My mouth felt dry as a desert. I turned the tips of my skis toward the wake. The edge loomed upward like a cliff of smooth and solid rock. Could I scale this precarious precipice? Could I make it back over the wake? Nothing is ever as easy as we remember, is it? I bet you can guess what happened next: my worn-out legs finally gave way, and I hit the surface of the water like a thunderclap. The lake roiled and seethed around me like the high winds of a summer storm, but my life jacket kept me safely afloat and soon my waterlogged head popped out above the now-calm surface. I sputtered and then laughed and then laid my head back to soak in the hot July sun. What a harrowing and wonderful flight.

Some things get easier as we get older and grow in maturity. We know ourselves better and we understand our gifts and our callings. Some things become more difficult, but they also become more rewarding. Young me wouldn’t even have blinked at getting up and riding across the lake at top speed on a set of water skis. Older me appreciated the skill and muscle memory I maintained into motherhood, and the self-determination that helped me remember how to fly.

Photo: Aaron Burden on Unsplash