The dock removal and subsequent winching of the boat lift up the bank went smoother than anyone can imagine.
A few years ago, I sold the extremely heavy, twenty-five-year-old dock to a fella for exactly what I’d paid for it. It seems impossible, but when you factor in inflation, he found that the same dock now doubled in price; he bought mine.
I sought a more modular dock, something with removable cedar decking/panels, so I could “pick at it.” Essentially, take it apart slowly, then walk the pieces up to where they are stored.
I did it because sometimes no one wants to drive 100+ miles to help you remove a dock in October.
It makes sense; it’s difficult nowadays to find someone to walk next door and help you move a sofa bed.
I could take this entire dock out by myself, but I don’t want to.
None of that is here or there, except that the kid, doing what the kid does, was called out overnight for a case, which limited his ability to get to camp at sunrise to help me as he’d planned.
I started in on it, moving what I could, when he miraculously had a change in plans and was able to come down for an hour. That’s all it took, but the panels had already been secured by the old guy.
And aluminum, in this configuration, unbolted from adjacent sections, is almost a joy to move. I say almost, because it’s not a joy at all; it just hurts less.
And, yup, the water was cold, but not so cold that whining about it was helpful.
Beyond all that, I would like to point out that taking the time to look up, both toward glory above us, and the sunrise in front of us, impaired by downeast fog, does keep you motivated.
I’ve found that standing and staring, one of my God-given superpowers, has kept me motivated for years.
When I am tired or ache, I stop what I’m doing for a couple of minutes to take in my surroundings. Listening is cool, too. Because there was nothing to hear at this time of day but a bit of sloshing nearby as Ellie took a dip.
It was magical for about twenty minutes, and here I am, enjoying it.
Each time I have an epiphany about finding an old van to drive across the country, fighting and jostling with other people for pretty parking spots and bucolic surroundings, I try to center myself and imagine what that must feel like. I know I seem patient, but I am not.
In times like that, I am most thankful to be in a place other good humans would want to be. That’s how I control those urges to “find myself” in a cross-country excursion.
I guess it’s because I’ve already found myself and I am exceedingly thankful. Even when my back aches a little bit.
I have some cupboard cleaning to do, and I’ve been pummeled with good advice from the Significant One not to leave anything in the fridge. “Could you please wipe it down while you still have the hot water available for the cleansing process, please?”
I tend to leave a couple of things just in case, and those sometimes freeze and break, making the initial opening of the camp a dirty dance of scrubbing.
I will.
Nobody puts Timmy in the corner.
Keep your hands to yourself, leave other people’s things alone, and be kind to one another.
From the Jagged Edge of America, I am thankful.
TC