I’m curled up in the water like a wood louse,  hugging my shaking knees and clinging to the tow bar like a drowning man clutching a branch.  The water is dark and deep, harbouring its murky Canadian secrets.  Far away, at the shoreline, in the thick, fringing forests, the spruce and jackpine admire their rippling reflections from enviable spots on terra firma.   The sun’s menacing eye stares at me through a tattered shroud of cloud. At the end of the long rope, the boat’s engine growls and the bar tugs at my hands. The heavy skis shimmy and writhe on my feet like live things, making a break for freedom, one directly over my head and the other twisting around to leap at the opposite shoulder.  I splutter and flail like an upended bug, keeping hold of the bar and wrestling my elongated and rebellious footwear back into the water.  They nose up in front of me with the rope between them, and with a slightly nauseated twinge of fear I shout “Hit it!”.  The motor’s growl rises to a predator roar and the boat leaps up and forward on a white cresting wave of foaming water. The tow rope snaps out of the water, taut, and the bar pulls my arms straight so that I am a dead-weight pulled faster faster faster against a wall of water heavy and thick like the whole lake pulling me back into its clammy embrace.  I straighten my shaking legs and am pulled up and over and back down tumbling tumbling into the churning depths. 

Gasping and waterlogged, I splash to the surface after a second that feels like a minute, to see the boat still speeding away and the water-skis still on my feet.  The sun, the trees, the surging water all seem to mock my sorry failure to rise from the waves.  The boat circles back, loaded to the gunwales with an irritating cargo of sympathy and advice.   I ignore both, and grab the rope, determined to achieve my goal.  I reposition myself, and raise my skis again, this time with less mutinous resistance.  I let the boat once again sprint away with me behind ploughing the waves, but now feeling a lifting force under my feet.  I don’t try to stand, but bend my knees slightly and pull the tow bar towards my body.  I’m standing! The skis whistle-glide through the foamy water as silent-slick and graceful as eels, and through the cling of the wetsuit I can feel the cooling of the wind.  I’m flying, gliding on the water, friction and gravity entirely mastered with speed and momentum.  It’s a thrilling feeling, addictive.