Brother Broken



All about Makwa Lake. You should check it out this summer.

On hot summer days, the beach beckoned. We each grabbed a towel and water toys, and put on a swimsuit. Mom packed the food, Dad drove the car, and we headed to Makwa Lake.

Dad barely had the car stopped, and we jumped out and made a beeline for the beach. We forgot our tire tubes in the trunk of the car and had to run back to get them.

My breath quickened when the first cool splash hit my body. I waded in, holding out my arms, trying to adjust to the cold chill of the northern lake water. I bobbed in the waves, working up the nerve to dunk my head. But then, John came up behind and pulled me backward into the drink. I caught a foothold and stood up, swinging my arms for balance and coughing up lake and sand. I pushed wet hair away from my eyes and went after him. He blocked me with splashing. I tried running away, but my legs were drunk and sluggish beneath the water’s surface. I hooked a floating tire tube in my arm and made like a motorboat, kicking distance between us. I laughed as he tried keeping up with me.

We could only stand the lake’s cold for so long, and then we had to get out. Coming out of the water, the shivers rattled us worse than a fast trip down a bumpy road. We wrapped ourselves in terrycloth towels and sat on the sand, trying to glean the sun’s warmth. We gazed across the lake’s wide expanse and pondered its personality.

The lake had a temperament you could read like a mood ring. Beneath cloudy skies, its swells rippled the color of cold steel. On those days, the lake was a surly hostess, inhospitable to its visitors. I preferred to sit at a distance and admire it rather than wade in its icebox shallows. Its disposition warmed on sunny days, though. The surface softened to lush satin, luring beachgoers into its watery playground. But beneath the sensual veneer, the lake concealed a frigid secret. My toes scarcely kissed the surface before budding goosebumps raced up my arms, looking like a reverse run of falling dominos. Regardless of hue, the water was too far north to hold heat.

Sand along the shore was mottled, the colour of oatmeal. It was coarse and felt prickly sharp on our feet, like walking on tiny shards of glass. The sand’s texture wasn’t great for building sandcastles. Kids grew frustrated at their failing efforts to form one.

Brother Broken

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