The lake stays frigid cold well into
the hot part of May. It's the mountains, really. The Ozarks aren't
exactly what you'd call snow-capped, but they're colder than they
should be, and the deep forest canopy keeps the sun from ever
touching the streams.
Those brooks run down the mountains'
hips, and down into the hot valleys below. It's the kind of water
that'll stop you on your run, make you take a cool sip and stand
there, panting and drinking.
It's also the kind of water that'll
shock you when you jump in. You'll be laughing and joking with your
friends, going down to the water and generally having a great time
pretending you're all a decade younger than you really are. Then,
you'll feel all bold and decide you really need to stop being such a
sissy about how you get into the water – toes, then feet, then
calves and knees.
You'll walk right onto the dock
thinking that makes you a badass. You'll drop your towel right there
on the wood and grin that stupid grin, and you'll do some sort of
half flip into the chest deep water.
When you plunge in, the first thing
you'll feel is the encapsulation. There's that sound of the water
closing in over your ears and face. Halfway between a lover's whisper
and a threat. Your toes brush against the silty mud, and for a split
second you don't even notice the tiny blood vessels at the surface of
your skin shutting down.
Summetime cold doesn't come down and
nestle inside your bones like Winter cold does. It reaches inside you
and stabs your heart before you even know it's there, so when your
friends watch you jump in off the dock, they won't notice a thing
until you explode back up from it, staggering like you just took a
punch. You'll thrash and collapse back under, trying to claw your
way back to the shore, and when make it you'll holler something
inane, like
“FUCK!”
That's when your friends will all
decide to go play volleyball instead.
