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The mosquitoes thinned out every year by the third week of August, but the best place to avoid them was still the island in the middle of the lake. The lack of wind didn't stop us from taking the sailboat out there that morning. We just fired up the auxiliary and motored away from the dock.

We lived in adjacent houses half-way down the narrow arm of the lake that pointed east from the main body, like the handle of a ping pong paddle. All of the year-round residents lived along the arm, because that's where the only all weather road went. You couldn't get near the homes elsewhere on the lake in winter, what with the snow and all.

The lake was a mile or so out of town, so it still felt like country. During the week, when only the locals were around, the lake was pretty much deserted. Most of the houses sat out of sight back in the trees, so you could fool yourself into thinking you were alone in the wilderness, if you didn't look too close.

The lake sat in a long, shallow valley that ran west to east about two-thirds of the way up the west side of Maine. Softly rounded mountains walled in the place. When the wind came up each afternoon about four, it funneled down between the mountains and blew your sailboat from the west end of the lake back to home in mere minutes. And if you were silly enough to be caught out there during one of the summer afternoon thunderstorms, you were in for a hell of a ride. ...

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