Spilling the Wind

We closed out the summer like many Americans, slipping out of town to our favorite beach. Ours is on a small lake in northern Minnesota, a pond easily conquered by paddle. And we made a new investment in leisure, purchasing a 20-year-old sailboat, a little racing model called a Force 5.

Of course, this being America, most of the lake's weekend residents feel the need to burn gas, and the lake hosted more power boats than we had seen all summer. Usually this grates on my nerves somewhat, the putt-putt or ripping roar over stillness, the stench of exhaust on the breeze. But at $3 per gallon, one can't help but feel sorry for folks who are so desperate to justify the expense of their boat that they motor unabated with flabby triceps drooping over the gunwales and doughnut waistlines bulging out of the seats. Fortunately, by a wide majority, they plod their girth courteously around the pond.

Our new boat sailed very nicely on light breezes, and Sunday was one of those perfect northwoods days. We took turns on the boat, watched the boys wade in the shallows, and finished with an evening sauna.

The day ended with competing volleys of fireworks from opposite sides of the lake. I'm not crazy about the symbolism of all that rocket's red glare, we being at war and all. And when I was a kid, a few packs of bottle rockets, Black Cats, and sparklers on Independence Day were enough. But I'm not going to Scrooge over a half-hour of admittedly spectacular sprays of potassium nitrate and sulfur.

Then, once the exchange ended, one camp kept on launching long into the night, interrupted by a severely amplified and inept karaoke debacle. They finally settled down well after eleven on a Sunday night, concluding their dick-wagging with a few dozen colossal--we're talking wake up the kids and send the canines under the sheds--booms.

Call me, if you must, a limp-wristed comforter of the enemy: this was a sad display of what is so wrong about this country these days. Our descent from civility, our pathetic need to entertain ourselves by cocky displays of power. My refuge, a place where I have indulged in the comfort of quiet, isolation, and tonic breezes, is eroding out from under my feet.