Summers on Sebago Lake
When I was little, summer vacation in Maine meant spending as many weeks as I could wheedle, at my Aunt and Uncle’s “camp”, or cabin, on Sebago. My Uncle had a boat, naturally, and we begged on a daily basis for him to pull us (”us” being me and my cousins) behind the boat on the “torpedo” float. We’d line up on the thing, hang on for dear life, and scream our fool heads off as he dragged us along, playing crack the whip or occasionally swerving into his own wake so we could “jump” the torpedo over the waves. Inevitably, one (or all) of us would fall off, and we’d sit there, floating and waiting for him to come back around to us, wondering what could be eyeing our toes from a depth of 300 feet.
Them snapping turtles are vicious, after all.
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