In 1993, on the beach at Lac Eau Clair, my uncle digs out pits in the sand for me and my cousins to lay our towels in. We feel luxurious in these personalized beach chairs. My cousins are all girls and are all older than me, and when we wade into the salty water slowly we agree not to splash each other or push each other over. The water is never close to warm, we go in a bit, come back out, try it again, bobbing deeper trying to get accustomed to the numbing cold. My uncle runs at top speed (jean shorts instead of swim trunks) straight in and as soon as possible he dives all the way under. I wonder if his SPF 8 sunscreen does anything at all. He has the reddest neck, which seems more than fitting, and his face is so similar to my mother's (don't tell her that).
I try to refuse sunscreen altogether because I think maybe this year I'll finally get a tan (it's not).
When we come, shivering, out of the lake, we wrap up in at least two towels, covering everything, even our eyes and let the sun heat us through the layers. I use my mother's lypsyl and get sand in the lid.
I wish I learned when I was small how much easier it is to just run right in, fully immerse instead of edging my way into the cold.
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