Jackson, CA, 2007

We drove on curvy western roads well out of our way to an unsure destination, past dry yellow hills lit golden by the low summer sun. As we spotted the entrance to the lake, we squealed with joy and a bit of relief. Eager to catch the last bit of warmth, we hurriedly pulled on our swimsuits under our clothes, fastening hooks and tying bows—an accelerated feminine ritual—in our rush carelessly flashing flesh to the locals packing up their trucks to head home. This is what I had been so desperately craving after too many foggy days: blazing hot temperatures and a natural swimming spot. Road trip perfection! This was the pay-off that sent us flying down unknown roads, and we were verily rewarded.

Except we weren’t. As we gingerly entered the water, we both recoiled: shit, it was cold! How could a lake not warm up after a month of 90-degree days?

We stood there, so pale and bare, ankle-deep in murky cold and frowned at each other, contemplating our situation. I sank into my skull: I was disappointed by the cold, but also in myself. I felt old and lame, like I was a disgrace to the sanctity of summer. I’d made it to the exact spot I’d conjured in my wildest summer dreams, all hot weather and open water, and barely gave more than a toe to the cause.

After a few minutes of negotiation, Alexis was ready to concede our defeat.

“Forget it.”

“No, man, we can’t.”

“But it’s so cold!”

“Come on. We’ll go in together.

“Arrrrr.”

“Come on. On three.”

“One"

"Two"

"Three."