We reverse out of our slip at Newport Yacht Club at precisely 2:30pm on Friday, July 10, 2026. I motor SeaLight down the channel backwards until I reach the green marker buoy then turn sharply to swing the bow through 150 degrees of rotation and get us pointed towards the harbour exit.
Then, we are on Lake Ontario.
The thoughts that routinely circulate in a clockwise direction in my mind – work problems, things to fix in the house and yard, maintenance tasks on the vehicles, dinner planning, exercise planning, banking reconciliations, and that damn Extreme song that plays on infinite repeat in my brain like a busted jukebox - dissolve like instant coffee in boiling water, and I am left with contemplating only the present. The soothing hum of the diesel engine. The slight chop on the water. The warm breeze on my face. My smiling wife.
It is a nice day to be on the lake. It is a nice day to be alive.
Nearly five months have passed since I wrote for pleasure, a long gap for me. My morning writing ritual has been completely replaced by a new hobby – learning Portuguese. Ana and I will be returning to the Azores in October and I’ve decided it’s long past time to muscle in on that language and draw strings between the hundreds of words I have learned over the many years of being part of a Portuguese family. I want to be able to hold up a conversation with Ana’s crazy cousins, aunts, and uncles, as well as the few non-crazy ones. No, we won’t be talking politics or religion or medical procedures, but I do hope to be able to ask somebody to pass me another cupcake or direct me towards the nearest water closet.
We pass a few sailboats and powerboats near the coastline, and see a freighter or two in the distance, but the lake is quiet as we cut through the waters, heading at 85 degrees towards the far end of the lake. Ana puts on a bathing suit and takes a cockpit cushion and pillow and a book out to the front deck of the boat. I join her and we relax and read as the autopilot assumes steering duties.
“I don’t think we ever did this, even once, the entire time we sailed to the Bahamas,” Ana says as she leans over and kisses my cheek.”
“We did sit on the deck, but never with the cushions, and rarely so relaxed.”
“Why?”
“Too salty for cushions,” I reply. “And little time to relax when navigating new waters every day.”
“Well, this is lovely,” Ana says, then rolls onto her back to continue reading her steamy Heated Rivalry novel.
It is a nice day to be on the lake. It is a nice day to be alive.
By the time we’ve had dinner and cleaned up it is already 9:30pm and we’ve been tricked into thinking it much earlier because of the lengthy days. We are now into US waters and there are no longer any boats within sight. We watch half a show on the laptop in the cockpit then I head down for some sleep as Ana takes the first watch of the evening.
