One summer day a few years ago, I was having a great time idling a few miles from our marina, lazy solo paddling at the end of a Midwest lake that my family had been going to for years. In strong silence. From your kayak, you can hear the regular calls of cicadas and tree frogs perched beneath the overhanging branches of pine, oak, maple and birch trees. I was happy, as they say. In effect, it was as if I smoked a joint or drank a strong Belgian ale, but all I consumed was breakfast and occasionally. I had no idea before hearing this message, but simply… It seems like there was too much need for nature.? Life? No, that can't be possible.
Unfortunately, my joy was short-lived. The wind picked up, and as I headed back towards the dock I saw a dark thunderstorm rolling in. Oh shit.
My nerves were eased by the sight and sound of the rented pontoon boat, with my father at the helm, conveniently buzzing around my course like a giant, boxy June bug. With his trademark caution, my father set out for the storm entrance to (a) observe the storm and (b) collect the flowerlings. At first I stubbornly refused to be saved, but he wouldn't give up, despite all the persuasion he had given me to get here with my Advanced Arts degree diploma. So I pulled my kayak onto the pontoon and he limited us back across the lake.
A completely opaque wall of rain was coming – and it was right here! – We are angry now. Dad drove the June bug into the teeth of the wind while I sat on the bow, working as gently as that guy holding a lantern in the door fold of a Led Zeppelin IV. I can see maybe 20 toes in front of me, or I can squint my eyes and try hard to find the shoreline or another boat during a thunderstorm.
This wasn't the first time my father and I were annoyed by the lake weather. The Offermans have made an annual pilgrimage to Longy Misplaced Lake in northwest Minnesota since I was five years old, and this cherished ritual remains a part of the year that allows me no contact with Hollywood. While your entire family drives about 12 hours from Illinois, I fly from California to Fargo, North Dakota, then drive east and north for 90 minutes to reach nearly 500 acres of wondrous evergreen ring-shaped lakes. do. . Once you arrive, after unloading the groceries, there's always that moment when you look outside and actually feel the breeze and try to say a word about your breathtaking surroundings. But instead, we kill the primary of many giant mosquitoes by slitting their throats and shouting, “You son of a bitch!” Where do you spray?”
Nick and Laurie anticipating fly barge puberty; Nick and family, second from left, collecting bait leeches (Photo: Courtesy of the Offerman family)
We are often about 20 people, spread across three or four generations, staying in two shabby cabins that provide for our basic needs: sleeping, cooking and playing cards. The real attraction is the lake. Because we Offermans have plenty of plums for boating and frolicking. Whether it's fishing, tubing, paddling, cruising, or simply playing on the water, our family knows what we like and we've found the right place to do it.
Our unique information about the lake is now long gone, but alas I will always remember him. A bent, creepy man named Invoice, the only one I saw in his 16-foot fishing dinghy. This was the mid-1970s, before the advent of fancy, gadget-laden bass boats. Invoice sat on a bench in the back and ran the whole thing utilizing various Rube Goldberg rope and pulley programs. From this location, he can drop or retrieve all or any of the three anchors and adjust the speed of the large outboard motor and the smaller electric trolling motor. Each is mounted behind him and can be placed in shallow water. .
Invoice knew that each divot within the lake mattress could be hiding a walleye, so we lured them with his favorite bait when we went out together. A mixture of shiny beads, a small spinning spoon and an eagle claw hook dinner crawler halfway through the fat. The invoice would finish the manipulation of every little masterpiece with a thick layer of tobacco juice from a long tuft of leaves on his cheek.
Dad's first boat was like Invoice's, and as our youngsters got older we added some thrilling options to the fleet. But please hold on for a few essential lessons on water security and protocols. Whenever you boat with Offermans, you can definitely do one of two things. You can fish or just roll around. If you want to fool around, you'll get good suggestions from anglers to find a safe distance. Our extreme, grim depths will be traced back to our early days, when we would fill a few coolers with our catch and freeze it, providing dozens of frugal meals in the coming years.
Still, we take care of catching fish on Tuesday nights and maintaining a huge barbecue in the cabin, but today we often catch and fire. So, if Dad doesn't want to, one of the fun things to do is to throw a fish at your little brother's head to “shoot” him. Ideally, you'll give him a gentle slap all over his cheek when you make your trip back to the lake.
There are also ways to have fun in Tinkle without having to head back to shore, relying on the company you have on board. If everyone seems okay, they'll turn their heads. Meanwhile the tinkerer, so to speak, the brother, is once again standing at the bow and watering the water. That's when you “accidentally” drop a pair of pliers and have to grab them before they hit the underside of the boat (which spooks the fish), while you grab the pliers and shake the boat violently, “saving the day.” . This will give your brother an unbearable sense of dread and will hopefully make him wet his pants.
Whether it's fishing, tubing, paddling, cruising, or simply playing on the water, our family knows what we like and we've found the right place to do it.
When I was a tiny first mate, my grandfather Mike bought a 9-foot aluminum dory from his brother whose blue paint was peeling off to reveal a white base coat. Over time, I've connected completely different electric trolling motors to the transom, but my favorite has been to tune that element in all places. My mother and father let me off freely, the only instructions being to wear a life jacket and keep the cabin visible. It gave me two square miles of lake to discover, and I would get back to paddling at top speed. Having a complete boat under my command was completely fascinating. The sound of water against the hull and the wind through leaves drifting along the shore filled my ears as I scanned my surroundings for bald eagles, blue-gray herons, ospreys, and most importantly, the magic loon.
These adventures are here to stay with a tough lesson in the wrath of Mother Nature. One day, when I was ten years old, I went out in a rowboat, paying no heed to the land, and the darkness of the horizon soon replaced the rumbling lumps of coal on the lake. The wind whipped about three toes harshly, a lot more pressure than I had hoped to overcome. But despite this, I turned the boat into big waves and tried to row against the rising white sand. At the same time, it pushed us further and further away from our dock and cabin.
Immediately and cinematically, our muscular teenage neighbors, Sven and Kurt, appeared out of nowhere, neatly following me in their easy fishing boat with a sturdy outboard motor. Sven quickly jumped into my boat, turned the bow toward shore, and rowed like an Olympic athlete, racing us to the security area in a matter of minutes. I was very grateful, as was my family, who saw that I was in danger and soon gave birth to a kitten.
Over our years at the lake, we've done our best to avoid the hassle, but it usually sneaks up on you. The day my father rescued me from a pontoon kayak in a blinding downpour, I was glad we did this together. We've always been a solid crew, working on live shows to achieve what's needed, like directing the other side when backing a trailer right into the warehouse.
This time it was even more painful, but I wasn't anxious because my dad was driving and wouldn't miss it. Finally, I was in a position to make out a horizontal strip of forest along the shore and thought we were only a few hundred yards to starboard from the dock. Saving ourselves the trouble of getting to port, we maintained a safe cushion along the coast until relief flooded our senses. You may see our dock. As soon as we had the pontoon firmly in place I was so scared of the boat experience that I reminded myself why single malt scotch is such a useful elixir.
“I wasn’t anxious.” Dad said. “You were exploring and you didn’t miss either!”
