Another Summer Day

Another Summer Day

It's one of those days that it seems a crime to be inside for. A 'Wind
in the Willows' day. That book inspired and influenced generations,
when it comes to Britain's waterways. Languid summers spent 'messing
about in boats', amongst the midges and the dandelions, just lazing the
day away on a small wooden structure. It's been done for millennia, and
for millennia to come people will keep doing it. It's simplicity at its
most pleasurable. Just stare up at the cloudless sky for a moment, and
think about Ratty, and Moley, and dear ol' Toad.

Or perhaps, you might think about the many poems and songs also devoted
to days like these. Hum one. Think about the Romantic poets, or the
recent ones, who've devoted pages to days like these, preserving them
between paper and ink like exhibits in a museum, to be loved by those
who may never have them to appreciate. Contemplate the English
obsession with summer and sunny days, knowing they are too rare not to
appreciate, and try to ignore the fact that by this time next week it
will be tipping down with rain again.

Stare at that sky, and imagine. Imagine you are lying on the deck of a
narrow boat, drifting through one of England's many canals. You used to
go on daytrips like this as a child, and they left such an indelible
imprint on your memories of those lazy days of childhood that the two
are inexorably entwined. You just couldn't help yourself, when you say
this pine and painted memory made real, you bought it. And even better,
it's not one of those engined things, all fitted kitchen and generator
installed to run the television and PS2, no, you had to buy a horse as
well.

Sit up for a second, and look at that horse. Old and placid, it plods
stolidly along the towpath, nosebag moving rhythmically as it chews on
the oats you dumped in there that morning. It's a shire horse, huge and
gentle, picking its way through grass and stones, enabling you to
meander down this water lane in perfect peace. You named it Dobbin, for
the same reasons your dog is called Rover. Sometimes the old ways are
mostly definitely the best ways.

You invited several friends on this trip, and one of them is leading
the horse. Dobbin really doesn't need the guidance, but it's as good an
excuse as any for your friend to stretch her legs. You pass a family,
who wave in cheerful envy, and you wave back happily. The children try
and feed Dobbin their unwanted salads, but your friend shoos them away.
No, they can't ride the pony, but yes, they can stroke him as long as
he doesn't have to stop. You laugh with them, and flop back on to the
deck.

The sun burns your eyes, so you close them, and smile at the orange and
red patterns on the insides of your eyelids. You wouldn't swap days
like this for anything in the world. Another friend, a male one, calls
from inside the ship, asking if you'd like him to put some music on.
You reply in the negative; you know what he'd like to hear and it's too
modern to fit with today. If, perhaps, he wanted some classical piece,
written by and for people 'messing about in boats', well then you might
say yes, but maybe not. You can hear the slapping of the disturbed
water against the boat, the over-indulged bees buzzing contentedly
amongst the wild flowers on the bank, the gentle clop of iron-shod
hooves drawing you along the miles of liquid created for just such a
purpose. What more music do you need?

Not far from here is a turn off to the river real. As you think about
it, you remember a footpath, dappled with shadows, following the gently
curving bank of that river. It flows no faster than the canal, and you
can hear the birds dipping and diving to catch the clouds of insects
that hover just above the murky water. Of course, there is that bridge
in the way. Still?

Your friend from the galley, who has come up to sit with you,
recognises that look. He's as interested as you in leaving this manmade
river and exploring one of Mother Nature's own. Actually, he recalls,
that the bridge can be lifted, so you could, if you really wanted to.
There's no guarantee the footpath will hold out, or that it won't get
too shallow, but he thinks there's a nice little pool created by an
eddy where you might stop for a bit. The water's quite clear, and he
has a fancy to go swimming.

You call to your friend on the bank. She's not certain it's legal to do
this, but other than that she has no objection. As long as you're
certain you can fit under the bridge. You can see it now, you wave
expansively, and assure her that if it doesn't go up you can fit under
it.

Actually, now you're closer, you can see that it's a lock, not a
bridge. The river runs next to the canal, only getting close enough at
this one point to make the cross over. You clamber to your feet and
prepare to launch yourself at the bank so you can help your friend open
the gates. The two of you let the water level out, then push open the
gates. It takes some meticulous steering, but you get the boat into the
narrow lock.

Leaning on the long wooden shaft, you watch the water drain down to the
level of the river. Soon, you'll be out on flowing water, which out to
take some of the strain off of Dobbin. The water gurgles and chuckles
as it flows into little eddies and whirlpools and runs off into the
river. There's a click, and you and your friend start pushing. She
smiles at you, and your heart leaps. You love both of them dearly, but
she makes you feel something you never expected, and you feel a little
self-conscious in your shirts and sweat-dampened t-shirt.

Once your other friend has manoeuvred the boat through, you're careful
to close the lock gates. You know the rules of the waterways, just as
you had to learn the rules of the highways, though you're still
struggling to pass that driving test. On days like these, though, the
idea of driving a smelly, cramped motorcar, a bubble that cuts you off
from the sun and air and leaves you detached from the natural world you
were designed to flourish in, is almost abhorrent from you. You can
barely understand people who want to float around in a boat with a
motor, let alone a car.

Dobbin seems a little disconcerted by your detour, and your friend has
to encourage him to keep going. You have to head in the direction you
had been coming in, as the poor horse can't wander across the lock
gates like you can. Still, the river soon breaks away from the canal,
so the scenery is fresh and exciting.

Unlike the canal, drenched in sunlight, with wide paths on both sides,
the river is shaded by tall trees, willows mostly, which mean you can
stare at the bright blue sky without fear for your retinas. The leaves
glow green as the light splits through them and around them, and the
colours look as if they were just invented today. No photograph, no
painting, no static imitation could ever capture the vibrancy of these
colours. The sky is bright and seems to create light of its own accord,
without relying of the white-hot sun. Even the shadows seem to glimmer
and give out light, which even you know isn't possible.

It takes about half an hour for you to reach the place your male friend
spoke of. He strips off his shirt, giving you a wonderful view of
bronzed muscles, understated but much more pleasant than those veined
bodybuilders. His white shorts cast an impeccable contrast, and his
sun-streaked hair is sweat slicked into his eyes. He gestures for you
to join him, but you're happy where you are. You find yourself as drawn
to him as you were to your friend earlier. Maybe it's the heat, maybe
it's the time of day, maybe it's the time of life, but it doesn't
bother you that you could swing either way at the moment.

He stands there, studying the slightly brown water. It's only faintly
murky, you can still see the bottom, and he's trying to guess exactly
how deep it is. Your female friend ties the boat to a tree and tether
Dobbin to another, giving him a wide area of grass to munch on. She's
also wearing shorts and a tight tank top, and she's studying the water
as well.

You point out a problem to them both - they've only got one set of
clothes each, and there's no way of telling whether they'll dry off
before the sun goes in, or whether the silt will stain them. Her top's
brand new, and he won't want to stain his
washing-powder-advertisement-white shorts.

She comes up with a solution first. Pulling the top off, she chucks it
up onto the boat. He grins, and undoes his shorts. They swim in their
underwear, and since her bra and knickers, and his boxer shorts, are
white, they might as well have been swimming without. This seems to
occur to them as well, and you have to dodge as wet underwear slaps
against the desk, spraying you with refreshing water droplets.

You're not certain whether you appreciate this turn of events or not.
Both of them have amazing, summer-people bodies, tanned and athletic
and you could watch them all day, but you don't want to stare. You
realise, with a faint flush that doesn't go unnoticed, that you'd
happily fall in love with either of them. They mean the world to you,
as friends, and you can happily envisage yourself spending the rest of
your life with either of them.

They tell you that you look a little flustered, that perhaps you are
getting over heated. You feel nervous, they're so beautiful, can you
compare? Hauling himself onto the deck, your male friend presents you
with an unparalleled view of his naked body, and while you are thus
distracted he grabs you and tosses you into the water.

You panic and struggle for a second, until your feet touch the bottom
and you find you can stand easily. The disturbed silt hides your body,
and you realise that as long as you are mostly submerged and keep
moving, no one can see anything. This is both a relief and a
disappointment, as your friends are equally concealed. Still, you strip
off your shirt and shorts and hurl them onto the deck. The water isn't
warm, but it's not cold either. It's just cool enough to be appreciated
compared with the hot, dry air, and just warm enough to keep you from
wanting out.

Almost immediately you are tackled by your male friend, who plunges you
back under water. You're an all right swimmer, but you don't even want
to think about what you could catch each time you accidentally swallow
another mouthful of the minerally water. He laughs and teases you, and
you dunk him in return.

She wades over to separate you, but he gets her as well, and the three
of you enjoy a heart-pounding water fight, gasping and laughing and
loving every second. There's another element to the childlike games as
well, a sexual element. You're not letting each other forget you've all
grown up since then, and that the days when this would have been
watched by nostalgic adults with an affectionate smile are long gone.
You get groped more than once, though you can never identify by whom,
and you do your part in return. The laughter has a sultry edge from
time to time, and the squeals are more than just playful.

Part of you feels guilty, part of you revels in it. You can't help it.
You want this, you want them, and you want the reassurance that you are
not alone in your desire. The summer heat brings this out in all of us,
and the winks and nudges are teasing and portentous.

The fight only lasts for about half an hour before you're all
exhausted. She climbs out onto the boat, stretching out on the wooden
roof to sunbathe. Water catches the sun and gleams like fire on her
naked body, and neither of you, left in the water, can tear your eyes
away. You drag yourself onto the bank, eventually, and collapse in the
grass, face down. He seems reluctant to leave the water, and you know
perfectly well why. You felt 'it' brush your leg more than once, and it
was pleasant to know that you definitely weren't the only one.

After a while, he joins your friend on the roof. You can't hear what
they're saying, but they both sound very happy. You can hear a lot of
things: Dobbin masticating grass, midges skimming the water and bees
dancing between flowers, birds whistling and whooping all around you, a
breathy breeze rustling the leaves, the slap and flap of the water
against the boat, the susurration of the grass and the distant laughter
of the rest of the world. It occurs to you, briefly, that you could get
arrested for indecent exposure, but there's no one around to see. The
sun is warm on your back and the air is sweet in your mouth, and life
seems almost perfect.

You wake, cold and sore, in purplish shadow. The wind has picked up and
the setting sun casts a deep vermilion light over everything. It's a
stunning scene, the water streaked with gold, each ripple tipped with a
russet born of summer sunsets. You admire it only briefly, because, as
mentioned, you are cold and your back hurts. You try to twist to look
at it, but you gulp back a squeak of pain and realise dully you must be
badly sunburnt. The backs of your legs are a glaring red, and you find
some wry humour in the thought that once the red has gone you'll have a
very uneven tan, white on your front and brown on your back.

Your friends are nowhere to be seen, but the boat bobs reassuringly.
You wade out to it, appreciating the cold water on your burnt body, and
clamber on. There's a good smell coming from inside, and you duck in to
see her cooking sausages on a portable barbeque. She apologises for
leaving you to get sunburnt, but they'd come in not long after you
dozed off and they hadn't realised it had gotten so late. You clothes,
now dry after their brief dunking, are hanging over the back of a
chair.

You're about to put them on when she notices how bad the burns are.
Calling him out to watch the sausages - he'd been reading on the back
of the boat, where you couldn't see him from the bank - she grabs a
tube of cool lotion and starts to apply it liberally. You can't help
but enjoy the way it feels, having her hands gently massage your
painful skin, and the relief is immeasurable. He grins at you, and
jokes about your two shades of skin. You laugh, and realise that
despite that burn, it has been a wonderful day, overall.

Sitting on the deck together, eating burnt sausages - she'd scolded him
for that - and sharing a few beers, watching the sun slip below the
horizon, you realise that though you love both your friends equally,
they both love each other more. The odd touch, the secret smiles, the
way they seem even more at ease with each other than before, it shows.
You wonder vaguely if they had sex on the roof of your boat, or whether
that was why they had gone inside. You try to muster some jealousy, but
you can't, you feel so glad to have merely been a part of their day. In
some ways, you are actually quite proud, if it weren't for you this may
never have happened.

The same thought sustains you throughout their wedding, which takes
place one year to the day later, on your boat. They are clearly summer
people, and as their families and yourself, the only friend invited,
sit on the deck and look up at them, silhouetted on the roof of the
boot, the glow. Lean and tanned and sun-streaked, they belong to days
like these.

They both feel a little guilty, this you know, because there had been
another two possible outcomes that day, and it could have gone any way.
It took some reassurance, but they finally believe you when you tell
them that you don't mind. The hugs and kisses have always been a bit
more than platonic, and you appreciate this, but they obviously have
eyes only for each other. It took a lot of nagging, but you did
eventually discover whether or not they did do it on the roof. You
smile, and a sort of possessive pride takes you, and you feel like a
god for giving them this.

The sun is on the water and the pollen is on the air. The fish leap to
catch flies while the birds swoop to do the same. Leaves rustle and
water flaps, and in the distance is the sound of laughter. Later,
you'll all go swimming in the river and sunbathe on the deck, but now
you lounge languidly during long speeches and vows and tune them out to
appreciate the summer at its best and briefest.