So last week I spent a week in a beach house in Charleston doing the Starry Coast writers’ workshop with ten strangers. No longer strangers after a week together! I had very little idea what to expect, other than the immediate practicalities, but I went in with a great deal of hope, a bunch of chocolate to share, and a theory that I could deal
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(I am sorry the gelato failed you, though.)
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But the big lake is...well, I now have the urge to get people to help me in it, too, but that time of year is gone now. And even when that time of year is back again next year, it will be a very chilly embrace.
I think I want to anyway.
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I have waded in Superior with vertigo, with help. I adore wading in Superior, especially off the rock beaches. (THE ROCK BEACHES ARE THE BEST.) But even wading, at the end of September--well, the Edmund Fitz went down in early November, and I guarantee you nobody was swimming in a swimsuit the month before, and wetsuit swimmers were likely few. The big lake is never warm, that's its glory. You go up in August and it's still not warm. The rocks are sun-warmed and hard under your feet, and they stay put, and then the lake is so cold, so clear and so cold.
I love my big lake.
And up to my ankles wading is different. With my big lake it's worth it. It's just...yah. Not the same.
Do you know my big lake story? I give you that, here. It's very short. And here is Meg Hutchinson's big lake song to go with it, here.
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I don't experience the comment as intrusive at all. It's very interesting. I'm just not sure that it works as a solution in this specific case.
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