Presumably, if you keep doing the things you did when you were young, you’ll never age.
As long as you’re able to continue taking flight on a bicycle, off a dock, into a lake, you will remain suspended, as in the air, above emerging decay and decrepitude.
And best of all, even just watching, beer in hand, from the shore, (or even better, in the water, where you can effect a continuous stream from mouth to lake), infuses you with such a sense of childlike wonder that the years melt away and there you are, in junior high all over again—except this time, you don’t have to hide the Rainier from your parents.
It’s become a summer tradition to set up the wooden ramp so folks can hurtle down the dock on a bike that floats and launch themselves into the water; not only is it not getting old, it perfectly illustrates how the longer you do such things, the younger they make you.
No one broke a neck or drowned and the accidents that did occur were minor enough to be funny—at least to those who were watching, not wrecking.
The weather was warmer and clearer than anyone prior to this strange Southern Californian summer could have reasonably expected, and the first quarter moon slipped away westward following a fine showing after sunset.
We learned that not all waterproof cameras are indeed fully waterproof and that there’s a window in one’s inebriation that opens after about half a bottle of wine or three beers and a joint to allow for ramp-jumping, but which closes half a bottle or three beers and two joints later to prevent the effort; it’s a phenomenon familiar to recreational bowlers, although in that case, what’s being thrown while tipsy is a plastic ball not one’s own body.
Someday, maybe, even those who refrained from flight will jump; we’re still not that old, but in the future, may be that young.
And best of all, even just watching, beer in hand, from the shore, (or even better, in the water, where you can effect a continuous stream from mouth to lake), infuses you with such a sense of childlike wonder that the years melt away and there you are, in junior high all over again—except this time, you don’t have to hide the Rainier from your parents.
It’s become a summer tradition to set up the wooden ramp so folks can hurtle down the dock on a bike that floats and launch themselves into the water; not only is it not getting old, it perfectly illustrates how the longer you do such things, the younger they make you.
No one broke a neck or drowned and the accidents that did occur were minor enough to be funny—at least to those who were watching, not wrecking.
The weather was warmer and clearer than anyone prior to this strange Southern Californian summer could have reasonably expected, and the first quarter moon slipped away westward following a fine showing after sunset.
We learned that not all waterproof cameras are indeed fully waterproof and that there’s a window in one’s inebriation that opens after about half a bottle of wine or three beers and a joint to allow for ramp-jumping, but which closes half a bottle or three beers and two joints later to prevent the effort; it’s a phenomenon familiar to recreational bowlers, although in that case, what’s being thrown while tipsy is a plastic ball not one’s own body.
Someday, maybe, even those who refrained from flight will jump; we’re still not that old, but in the future, may be that young.
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