Column: My happy place

After dinner the other night we decided to take a little ride to the west side of Chippewa Lake to see if we could spot the resident American eagle. Unfortunately, the foliage in the tree that supposedly holds his nest was too dense for us to locate the man of the house — or he was out hunting for dinner for the family.

We continued on the road that leads to the boat launch for two reasons: one, it’s the only way to safely turn around, and two, because it was a lovely evening and we had nothing else to do.

We parked the car and walked to a lakeside bench that provided us with lovely views of the lake that is so special to both of us, Ol’ Bill and me. We enjoy watching various folks both expertly and not so expertly launch their pontoon boats and jet skis for a trip or two around the lake. We are alternately amused and impressed with the degree of expertise involved in the sport of boating.

This particular evening found one pontoon boat with a lone captain who had us in awe as we watched him single-handedly get his ship in the water and throw up a wake getting to the opposite side of the lake, where we could only assume he had folks impatiently waiting. He never returned during the time we spent on our bench, so we don’t know the rest of his story. One lonely little sailboat caught a nice breeze and passed by, the wind filling her single sail and the setting sun giving her a bit of a glow. In the near distance we noted a paddleboarder gliding nearer to shore, away from the wake of the speeding crafts.

We found ourselves thinking back over our many years at the lake — lifetimes for both of us. Jet skis and paddleboards and pontoon boats hadn’t been invented yet, that we could remember. Sailboats, certainly. And rowboats and power boats that could haul waterskiers. And of course the boats from the old Chippewa Lake Park: the launch Miss Chippewa, the impressive speedboats Dynamite and Firecracker, and of course the little Putt-Putt boats.

My family had a rowboat but as far as I can recall, it was permanently in drydock upside down in our backyard. My dad was not a swimmer and didn’t encourage us to be on the water. If we dared, my brother and I would venture out on the lake in one of our friends’ boats. My backdoor best friend’s dad had a rowboat that he generously let us take out on the lake. We were teens in search of a really good tan (always better with the sun’s rays bouncing off the water) and a place to get away for our private conversations about boys, of course, and the latest styles in Seventeen magazine while we sipped Cokes in green bottles (no cans yet) and listened to our favorite DJs “Big” Wilson and Joe Finan on a portable radio, as I recall. Why do I remember those names from a half-century ago but have trouble remembering what I did this morning? Ah, but were they on KYW or WJW?

And then we thought back to one of Ol’ Bill’s buddies who constructed his own ice boat, complete with sail, that he would put on the frozen lake in winter, catch a good wind and fly along the shoreline — until he ran out of ice on one trip (most likely his last). No one was hurt and the story became a legend.

Putting our memories away, the cool evening air suggested it was time to head for home. We’ll check on the eagle another time.