When I was younger I wanted everything to go faster. The car, the boat, the piggy-back ride, the music, the hours. With every year that passed by, fear began to creep into that adrenaline rush. I hesitated at the top of ski slopes. I felt the burn and the air-lessness of a wipe-out on water. I began to drive in the D.C. area.
There is still one way I can go fast. And it's on a Jet-ski.
It's a Jet-ski that likes to quit on me randomly and run out of gas unexpectedly. But I can still run it until my ankles, knees, and thighs are sore from the jumps over waves and my hair is tangled and my cheeks are red from the wind.
When I drive others on the Jet-ski, my reputation often precedes me. Screaming and near-tips are a must. I've been called crazy. My sister practically gives me the heimlich on some rides. It's not often that I'm the passenger.
Today I went for a jet-ski ride on life-long friend (well, practically family, but that's another story, right?) A's jet-ski. Let's say I am pretty sure I got a more potent dose of my own medicine. There were many points at which I was sure I was going to die.
It was so much fun.
I love it here.
That's really the point of this post. Because as much as I write about my childhood in D.C as being a huge influence on my world outlook, there is a lot of Western Massachusetts in me. Every summer I've been driven up North, away from beltways and nighttime sirens and stripmalls and the bustle on living on the edge of the nation's capital. Then I live in a small little world where people actually need pick-up trucks and your friends' grandparents were friends with your own. And at night, priority number one is watching the pink sunset reflect off the lake.
And when you look up, you can actually see the stars.
Tuesday, August 11, 2009
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