The Boys of Summer. Connie Francis had a song by that name, as did Don Henley. Of course, baseball players are also known by that moniker. It seems many people have a concept of The Boys of Summer. I am no different, although my Boys of Summer certainly are.
They usually arrive each year in late May or early June. The phone rings and the question is asked, “Hey, Dad, is it cool if we come up and use the boat?”
The caller is my son, Evan, and the “we” is a of couple of his friends I call the “usual suspects.” One was his roommate from college. The other a friend and fellow wrestling team mate from high school who was also a fraternity brother in college. But they were close enough in high school that they fall into the category of “brothers from different mothers.”
My answer is always, “yes”. You see, I too am one of the Boys of Summer. It is indeed my favorite time of the year. Growing up on the lake, I made a ton of great memories under the summer sun and the stars that rule the night after the sun has gone to bed. Cool cars on a hot day with your elbow hanging out the window. Talking to girls in the parking lot after work. And, of course, the lake. When we weren’t swimming in it, we were skiing on it or fishing in it. Time stood still and we thought we would be young forever.
Back in our collective yesterdays, Kate and I had a little bowrider. It was given to us by a friend who no longer wanted or needed it. A little elbow grease and a new starter put us on the lake. We dragged the kids on a tube all over Lake Lanier. They loved it and so did we. It was the one activity we could all agree on. They brought friends from time to time. We picnicked, fished, and squeezed a whole lot of living out of 18 feet of fiberglass.
About the time my son was 12, he and I turned our aquatic efforts toward skiing. It has always been one of my favorite things. It soon became one of my son’s as well.
A couple of times a week, some of my friends and I would hit the lake for a session on the slats. My son was always a part of the party. His presence had a transformative effect. He became “one of the guys” and we became the Boys of Summer again. Youth restored youth.
My son is older now and on his own. Me, I’m older. I would say “mature” but neither my attitude nor my actions have ever lived up to that term. I still try to get the guys together at least once a week during the season. Somehow our schedules have become more complicated even though with children out of the house, our lives have become a bit simpler. On those rare occasions when Evan can join the crew, the magic still happens.
Recently Evan and the “usual suspects” were up for a day on the lake. One of my ski buddies and I were fortunate enough to have time to join them for a late afternoon session. It didn’t take long for it to happen. Their youthfulness restored ours. We laughed…shared stories…and pushed each other to be better skiers. We were equals and once again The Boys of Summer.
For some folks it is odd when their children cross the threshold into adulthood. Trying to adjust to the change in the dynamic of the relationship can be difficult. I still have the urge to tell my children what to do and how to live, but my shot at that is over. All I can do is give advice when asked. And to continue to be a living example of how to make the most out of breathing in and out. I must remind myself that they are adults capable of thinking for themselves and learning life lesson on their own just as I did.
Navigating the transition has been easier thanks to those early days on the lake when we were then as we are now: two guys looking to ski until we can no longer stand, leaving the things that divide us at the dock.
All too soon it was time to head back to the dock. The older folks had wives, dinner, and reality to tend to. The younger set were headed back out to enjoy the setting sun and to bask in the glow of youth.
With each step up the ramp to the shore, my friend and I slowly regained the mantle of our age. Aches, pains, and responsibilities all returned. The spell had been broken.
Unlocking the car and packing up the skis was interrupted by a sound drifting across the bay from the slowly departing boat. One of the “usual suspects” broke into song…a sea chanty, if you will. The words to “What do you do with a drunken sailor” were being belted out. When verse two arrived, all three were in full voice.
They say family members have a mental connection…sort of a familial E.S.P. I’m sure that’s why my son looked over his shoulder at me. He could feel the smile on my face and the sheer joy of their spontaneity in my heart. He tossed a casual wave as he crossed the No Wake Zone. Then he pushed the throttle forward and just like that the Boys of Summer faded into the sunset.
**Epilogue**
It must be noted that as the years progressed, so did my son’s abilities on a water ski. Now I watch him to learn how it’s done. He’s fearless with a casual style. I love to watch him test the static tension of the aquatic surface. It inspires me to try harder each time, even though I know I’ll never be quite as smooth.
I’m good with that.
He will always be the better skier, but I will always be his father. That’s a feeling even the best slalom run will never top.
