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Hiking to Sappho's Spring

 
 
 
 
 
I guess everyone now knows about my first Lesbian experience. I heard a few voices from the peanut gallery telling me it was hot. I’m not sure if it was all that. It was definitely weird and somewhat unfulfilling. It’s not like we rolled in the hay the rest of the vacation or anything. In fact, Stacy went off and befriended and bedazzled the childless woman, who’s husband was more interested in keeping up with my father than hanging out with his new wife and making sure she was happy. 
 
Sandy, my new step mom, just wanted to lie in the sun and sleep off a powerful hangover, and rest tired limbs. I knew she and Dad had enjoyed a MIGHTy FUCK the night before. Maybe it was the racket they were making that woke Stacy and got her crying. Her mom was sun bathing with her, reading a dirty novel with a brown paper covered jacket.



Read about the rest of the day, photos included (not of ME)Collapse )
 
Stacy’s Dad, Mr. Nichols was a marathon runner and a professor of Human Nutrition and Development at the Naval Academy in Annapolis. They also sailed together regularly in a league for J-22’s a size and class of sports sailboat. He and my dad quickly got themselves involved in fixing the rope swing in the oak on the other side of the cove. Dad said, “ I just happen to have a partial spool of decent climbing rope,” While they were at the country store up the trail and now apparently we had complete permission to stay the holiday weekend, as the spot was no longer reserved. They also offered to drive Dad over to the marina to fetch the van and they had a driveway all the way to the lake closer to their store, further up the “no motor cove”. 
 
The third man was named Ken and he was a rock climbing guide up at the Hermitage Cliffs not far from Penn State. Ken had just landed a fellowship and teaching post at Western Maryland College and was really excited to find a store offering outdoor adventure vacation tours and gear for sale in his new home town. Dad met him while taking climbing lessons a few years before.
 
Dad wanted to check out the swing rope area, test the depth and range and fix the rope. The guy at the store said the rope had been hung at least 3 summers ago, maybe 4. It was surely old now. I begged to go along, and though the men didn’t want a tag along girl, I was determined. Stacy’s Dad said, “ only if you can swim from here to there.”
 
“I don’t know, Scott,” my dad said. He was ex-coastguard and really accurate at estimating distances. He also wasn’t bad at measuring them either. “That looks like it’s over a ¼ mile. I don’t know as she could do it.” He scratched his whiskers, he wasn’t able to grow a full beard, as he had a heaping amount of Winnebago or something…
 
I was already wearing my swimsuit and some light jogging shorts and my boating shoes. I skipped down the mud beach and ran through the shallows with the warm sandy mud until it was finally deep enough to give it a good racing dive and get swimming. I plowed through 300 yards with hardly a breath in a power surge of butterfly strokes, not having to pull back after 12 or so paces to look for but not slap the wall was so hard, but to just arch and snap, with the thunderous double kick that propelled your arms forward and your shoulders to go round as you pulled and brought your heals smoothly towards your butt, and whoosh, you shoot forward another 20, 30 feet in a stroke, That was pure heaven.
 
Yes, I did tire and roll to my back and catch my breath as I watched Dad run his boat off the mud sand and start paddling up to me. I saw my lifejacket with the blue Hibiscus flower pattern was draped on the bow of the boat. As he smoothly and swiftly caught up to me, I floated, and began my inverted frog kick to keep making head way. Dad saw I’d recovered my breath and told me he wanted to see my breaststroke, the one that was winning ribbons in the junior leagues. I swam on, again enjoying the inner peace of perfecting my motions in the water and not really worrying about where I was going, I swam fairly straight and now my dad was there to make sure I didn’t end up swimming off at a crazy angle.
 
 
Scott and Ken finally caught up with us. They were tandem and kept beaching themselves in the mud in the shallows. Ken called out to me, “Are you tired? Do you need help getting in the boat?”
 
I stopped and hollered back, “No, I’m having fun.” Now I was working on my back stroke, and if I arched my head over enough as I did my left upstroke I could actually smile at my father as I kept abreast with his gentle paddling. Soon Mr. Nichols and Ken were just about on top of me, and I didn’t want to get pinched between the boats, so I swam under my dad’s boat, into the crystal clear lake water and saw one of the stocked sturgeon this lake held. He was fairly large, over 2 foot, bewhiskered and intelligent looking, and seemed to be checking us out, fearlessly looking at me and the boats. I fear Ken might have thought I was drowning. I saw his boat wiggle in the water and heard my dad say, “Sit down, you fool.” 
 
I swam out from behind Dad’s green boat and grabbed the trailing rear painter on theirs and gave it enough of a tug to turn their boat. Suddenly Ken was in the water. He managed to turn over my dad, and he started to freak out, because we were in the middle, no, past the middle, but the other side was cliffs, and didn’t look like a friendly sandy beach at all.
 
My Dad’s laughing now and splashing me. He thought that was a good joke I pulled, then he remembers the rope, which is now sinking steadily towards the bottom. We can see it dropping slowly, air escaping from the spindle, bubbles rising from the weave of the rope as water pressure grew. Now it was Dad’s turn to show off. He did a perfect surface dive and frog kicked hard and caught the trailing end of the rope and jerked it up. Luckily the spool rose instead of unwinding more and he was able to grab it and swim to the surface. Mr. Nichols had helped Ken get back into their boat. I swam under Dad’s overturned canoe and made sure that the cooler was still secure and shut, and amazingly, it was. Now I just hope that Dad had packed this cooler with mixers as well as beer. I hated an all beer outing. I much preferred pop.
 
So, Dad gives canoeing lesson #37, how to fix the disaster at sea, or rightly a boat in the middle of fucking nowhere. We both swim under the boat and get in the air bubble and get our life jackets on, as the floatation REALLY helps when turning the boat over with just our shoulder muscles doing the lift, basically, as our legs keep our shoulders above the water as we lift this big boat full of stuff.
 
“UP and Over!” Dad shouts, over is mostly just me letting go and ducking, but the boat is now upright and mostly empty of water. “Do you want to swim the rest? He asks me. 
 
I say, “Sure.”
 
“Zenith, you’re the tops!!” Yes, my dad is corny, and rarely calls me by my name. He calls me Kitty, my middle name is Katerina, after all, for my grandmother. Well, I swam and climbed out onto a sun baked rock and took a snooze while the guys set up that rope swing. I guess I wanted to get in some sunbathing on my vacation after all.
 
 
 
 
 
When I awoke, I realized the men were gone. The boats were still there. I saw the easy step-like path up the cliffs from the rock ledge where we parked the canoes. I climbed to the trail above and saw the posted no trespassing signs, but they all said by Whitner’s Grocery Permission only. I figured that was the name of the folks that had the property along the cove, though I thought that this side was supposed to be State Park.
 
I saw a trail and I saw the deck shoe prints, all new and crisp, in the dry dusty sand at the top of the cliffs.    I looked along the cliffs edge towards the Oak tree and saw the guys working to climb the tree and replace the rope. It looked real sturdy and happy on this cliff, not to near the edge, with lots of perfectly formed branches hanging out over the water. It was a huge tree, something to worship, especially by swinging off its mighty branches into the crystal waters of this lake. I decided to follow the trail away from the cliff. I got my dad’s attention and motioned that I was going to walk. He gave me the OK sign and hollered, “Not too far! Mind the cliff!”
 
I walked along, then noticed the trespassing signs now all had spray painted peace signs on them, pictures of mushrooms and other friendly 70’s stuff scattered along an old fence tie in the forest. I see now I’m on the lands of an old homestead. There are fruit trees and overgrown flowerbeds and bees and songbirds everywhere. I see lots of ripening berries and I hear the sound of running water. There is a spring box containing an artesian well, cool earth water bubbling sweetly into a concrete box, bubbling with naturally dissolved carbon gases. 
 
Oh, how I recall the taste of that wild water. I drank from the mother earth and tasted the flavor of the goddess mother and she is sweet. Then I heard giggles over the songbirds, coming from a sunny patch near a stand of beebalm, oregano and black eyed susans growing wild in this mystical meadow I wondered into. I hid behind the crooked apple tree, hunkering down by an abandoned metal wheelbarrow as I creep up to see who was giggling. Stacy’s brothers weren’t the only ones good at sneaking around.
 
What I saw some how marked me. I’m left with no words to describe what I felt, watching the girls who were giggling. I’ve always had a deep longing to find that spot again, and see if those girls still have picnics there above those cliffs in a garden protected by a Oak forest and a deep clear lake. 





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kicking myself in my big fat ass

so...the PC quit running entirely and we did a re-format...which fixed the problem...

but guess what got lost...

you got it...

the novel

Writer's Block: Pick an era, any era

My current work is centered on the 80's, when disco was still hot, the theatre district in Baltimore was happenin' and skiing was the sport of the rich and free spirited. I miss the muscle cars, the restored 60's and 70's hulks of steel and awesome paint jobs, I miss the boating events and regetta's.  The insurance industry has stiffled outdoor adventure sports, now only a few old stogy companies do this, a they are the only ones able to be insuranced, but once upon a time,t his wasn't such a hassle.

If you had to pick a time period to live in, which would you choose? Why?
My other favorite time to daydream about, the great Viking era, raiding, being stolen to an icy and foreign land, watching the great Roman Empire collaspe upon it's decadent and corrupt self...maybe I'm work more on that story line...

I feel HAWK-ish

yes...I'm feeling beak-y and mean, searching for lesser creatures to strike out at and gooble up.  I've been putting in some serious overtime at work and won a promotion, but that doesn't start until next fall.  Only one more day to go.

I haven't written a thing in a week, not even a commenting post here in LJ.  I was getting such heavy criticism in the communities it hurt, and I only got comments on Computer issue rants in my own journal.  Ever feel like just giving up?  Me, nawwwwwwwww...never...it just makes me feel like some mean minded eagle, soaring above it all, searching for the next warm thermal wind to lift my spirits and recharge my writing energy...

Writer's Block: Fictional Character

What fictional character do you relate to most and why?
Mrs. Jenny Jones Honour in Tom Jones by Henry Fielding

I didn't do it...I really didn't do anything wrong, and I've worked hard my whole life....

Writer's Block: I'm So Excited

What most excites you about the way you're living your life right now?
The semester is nearly over and I only have 2 more weeks of work.  Yes, I'll be broke as can be for the summer lay off, but I'll have all the time in the world to work on my novel, play around on LJ and go swimming with my kids.  All these activities are free...and that is what I'm most excited about just now!
Fucking Norton doesn't stop a virus...It just gives you the tools to fix the dang thing after your machine gets all gummed up with some malicious crap that it didn't know it should have been blocking in the first place.  Fuck if I know where this stuff comes from...maybe from my free tax prep thingie that I saw on the ISP's home page?

Anyway...couldn't get this machine to do jack shit last night...re boot...update...re boot...fucking bind up and make weird noises...word coming on and off.....LJ all bound up...wah wah wah wah....

So...I wrote out 4 pages in my miserable long hand of the next part to the raiding run...

part 04c...watermelon meltdown

the revelation that all our red hot exploring lesbian sex at Hidden Valley was captured on a security cam, and stills, negatives and prints and VHS tapes were made...plus...I have to tell Beth Waltermetzen I've made a pack with her stupid redneck cousin, to be his girlfriend in exchange for his help.  She's not going to like this...there's been problems with these two sides of the family for a very long time...

all in my horrible short hand...It may have to wait until the semesters end in 3 weeks to be typed...sorry...faithful readers...

time...isn't on my side...no isn't...

yeah...I know Mik Jagger sang it differently, but this a.m. I spent 20 minutes watching my PC update and diddle around while I lost my mind, and my train of thought.  so...we have another posting that says basically nothing and once again, no erotica has been written.

Fucking piece of shit PC...HOW I LOATH YOU!

Writer's Block: Here's the Skinny...

yes, of course...maybe I should right a short story about this next...
Have you ever been skinny dipping?