dare to be naive

It’s hot. The heat is making it hard to ride my bike faster than a slow creep. The time is a little after noon, but no one really cares. From where we are, we can hear our destination calling to us. None of us can wait to get there and taste the flavor of a journey well chosen. At this point we can’t ride anymore. The path is uneven, which makes walking difficult. Our destination isn’t marked, but we know exactly when we’ve arrived. After we have gone by the puddle full of minnows, the tree rotten to its core, and a few lifeless fish, we know we are there. We call it “white rocks,” a name passed down to us from our parents who discovered its magnificence in their era of daily adventure.  It’s attractive, our time-honored oasis, lonely but perfect in its own corner of the earth, just waiting for us to join it on this scorching summer day. The sharp cliffs are surrounded only by the smell of lake water and of the fish which reside in it. The cliffs are what we have come for. They attract us, asking us to play with them, and we obey. All of us join hands ready to embrace the refreshing water. Splash. The sound of the waves crashing under us is now above us. I am engulfed in the not-so-tropical Lake Erie water and it soon fills my senses. I come up for air and the chance repeats.