Half Moon Lake

It is July. I am 7. I’m filling buckets with sand and calling out to my brother, “Cole!!! Will you please come play with me?”. He is 10 and would rather be doing anything else than hanging out with his younger sister. Reluctantly he leaves his chair in the summer sun to engage in a round of filling the buckets with sand and then dumping them all out, just to start the process over again. He doesn’t say anything to me and we work alongside each other in comfortable silence.

It is January. I am 16. I am sitting in class. As I look out the windows at the falling snow, I can’t help but to think about being at Half Moon Lake in 7 short months. The snow will be long gone and the hot sun will be shining. I grin as my heart feels full with anticipation. I simply cannot wait.

It is July. I am 10. I’m lounging on an anti-gravity chair on the edge of the dock. My mom is inside making one of her famous “snack platters” and my brother stands next to me holding a fishing pole. He hasn’t caught anything all week but he’s not ready to give up yet. My dad is in town getting gas for the boats, (and Twizzlers for the kids- but don’t tell mom!). It’s probably around 5:00pm, but time doesn’t matter when we are at the lake. I’m not quite tall enough to span the whole length of the chair and I am too tired to think about my weight distribution. One second I’m laying still, and the next I’m flipping heels over head into the cold water behind me. With a smooth backwards somersault, both myself and the chair are submerged into the lake. My brother jumps into action. He throws the fishing pole down, grabs my forearm, and pulls me out of the water in one swift motion. Once I’m seated on the dock, I begin gasping for air and trying to figure out what the heck just happened. Without a second thought, my brother then leaps into the water to rescue the chair. This is when my mom emerges from the cabin, snack platter in hand, and sees what is going on. I race up the dock and front yard towards her, telling her the story, and she can’t help but laugh when she sees that I’m just fine. As her and my brother pull the chair out of the lake and place it back on the dock, I sit nearby wrapped in a towel munching on carrot sticks and pringles. I can’t wait to tell my dad when he gets home.

It is October. I am 5. I’m visiting my grandparents house. As I walk through the upstairs hallway I look at the walls around me. I spot a big, framed map of a familiar place. Half Moon Lake. The cabin that sits on this lake has been in my family for generations and was built by my great, great, great, great, great grandpa. I halt and take in all of the details. Including, the outlines of depth that fill the inside of the crescent moon outline. This notable shape is what gave the lake it’s surprisingly accurate name.

It is July. I am 18. I’m sprawled out on the boat’s back seating area reading a book. The sun is directly overhead and beaming down on my shoulders and back. I feel warm and blissful. My dog is splashing around in the water nearby running after a tennis ball. I look up from my book to observe, I love to watch him swim. His brown fur reminds me of a sea otter when it is wet. The water looks dark from the shadows of nearby trees and I can tell it is cold to the touch. There is a green tint to the water due to mossy rocks and fallen tree branches scattered all around. I glance around at the peaceful scene stretched out in front of me. I see the backside of the baby-blue painted cabin that has been in my family for generations. Large windows allow me to see into the living room and just a sliver of the kitchen. The cabin is wrapped with a trim of flowerbeds filled with pinks and oranges of all shades. Up close, there is no weed in sight. The old deck was destroyed in a storm a few years ago, the new deck extends farther out towards the lake. New furniture, picked with love and care, sits in the center of the deck. Yearning to be used for the first time. Later my family and I will eat dinner all together at this table. I see the path of smooth stepping stones reaching from the shore to the deck. I slipped on these rocks many times as a little kid due to wet feet as I ran to the old rocking chairs on the deck, eager to show my parents my newest shell discovery. The once sandy beach has been replaced with large rocks to sustain erosion. This makes me feel nostalgic because I remember the many summer days I spent with cousins on that patch of sand I claimed as my own. I can almost feel the texture of the dock that stretches out far into the lake. The plastic always leaves a bumpy imprint on the soles of my feet and I know it is hot to the touch from the sun. My family is also on the boat, which is tied to the end of the dock. We love to tie the boat here because it gives the illusion that we are floating in the middle of the lake, but we have the convenience of being just a couple meters from the cabin. My parents are seated at the front of the boat in chairs facing towards the open lake, both focused on the magazines in front of them. My brother is napping on the couch-like bench in the middle of the boat. I know he will wake up soon and ask me to hangout. Our 3 year age gap doesn’t stop us from being friends anymore. I pick up my phone to skip the song that is blaring through my headphones. I’m in the midst of my summer country music kick, and today I can’t get enough of Morgan Wallen. I turn my phone off and focus my attention back onto my book. I’m beginning to feel ready for a midday nap, but I think I could get through another chapter first. I think to myself that life couldn’t possibly get any better. I have no work, sports, or life responsibilities here. The cabin is where I feel the most at peace. It is my favorite place in the whole world. And it always has been.

It is July. I am 5. Almost swallowed by my hot pink life jacket, I am showing my mom all of the different ways I can jump into the water. Each jump has a special name and limb placement. My mom smiles and claps after each one. She rates them all out of 10, though the numbers never dip below a 9.5. My brother watches this for a while before deciding that he has his own jumps to showcase. He joins me at the edge of the dock with his matching blue life jacket.

It is March. I am 19. As warm weather and longer days approach, summer suddenly doesn’t seem so far away. School is getting harder and I would rather do anything else than write papers and speeches. Sleep is a fleeting activity that is now replaced with the stress of extracurriculars and my GPA. As I sit down to write this paper, my mind can’t help but drift to the bench placed deliberately against the shoreline of Half Moon Lake. Under the tree canopy, this wooden bench is the perfect place to take in the Wisconsin cabin scene around you. I close my eyes and I can almost feel the breeze blowing through the air from off the lake. The scent of lake water and humidity is something not foreign to me, and I am excited to be back in its embrace in a few short months.

It’s July. I am 8. Before the clock can strike 10:00am, my brother and I are running laps around the kitchen and living room of the cabin. The old hardwood is slick against my pink, ruffled socks. I have to stop myself from sliding into the open hallway closet. Outside is sunny, warm, and there is absolutely no wind. The perfect summer day. This year, my dad has promised to teach my brother and I how to water ski on a day with these weather conditions. He grew up coming to Half Moon Lake too and is full of stories just like mine. The most memorable are his tales of waterskiing with only one ski. I am filled with nerves and excitement as we grab all of the necessary equipment from the garage. We load up the speed boat and my mom sits on the front padded bench sipping her second coffee of the morning anxiously. My brother goes first. After a few failed attempts and many corrections called out by my dad, he confidently glides across the entire length of the lake. How am I supposed to follow that performance? When it’s my turn, I slip on my life jacket and cannon-ball into the cold, flat water. I slide the skis onto my feet and grasp the tow rope in my hands, just like Cole did. I smile at my mom to mask any of the nerves I am feeling internally. After taking a deep breath and readjusting my grip on the rope, I yell “Hit it!”, and off we go.

A piece of my heart will always remain in the cold, murky depths of Half Moon Lake.