3M got fifty-plus hours from me most weeks, but the evenings belonged to the lake. That's where the pace slowed, the pressure lifted, and life became simple again. There are seasons in life that settle so deeply into your memory that years later you can still smell the lake water, feel the pull of the tow rope, and hear the hum of a boat engine echoing across a still summer evening.
At 3:00 the workday ended. By 3:30 Dave and I were pulling into his driveway on Long Lake. The ties came off. Work shoes were kicked aside. Somewhere around 3:45, the boat engine came to life. And then the day changed. An hour earlier I had been a still wet-behind-the-ears engineer trying to convince people at 3M that I knew what I was doing. Now I was standing barefoot on a wooden dock with a ski under one arm and a tow rope in the other, waiting for my brother to yell, "Hit it!" For two summers, that became our life.
Dave was already well into his adult life—8 years at 3M, a house on the lake, and most importantly, a passion for water skiing that dated back to our cabin days on Bass Lake. He was the only one of us brothers who had ever taken to it when we were young. The rest of us were more likely to be found fishing or paddling around in a canoe, but Dave—he lived for the feeling of gliding over the water.
Those two summers would be one of the few times in our adult lives when my brother and I would live under the same roof, work in the same building, come home together, and have almost nothing standing between us and an evening on the lake. At the time, it felt ordinary. Looking back, it feels like a gift.
When I moved in with him after graduation, I walked straight into the world of an avid skier. His house sat practically on the shoreline. From the living room window you could see the entire sweep of Long Lake shimmer in the sun, and his boat—his pride and joy—was always tied up and ready, bobbing gently like a loyal dog waiting for its owner’s next adventure.
I had tried water skiing once or twice before, and to be honest, I never really got the appeal. My previous attempts had been on choppy water, two skis, white-knuckled grip, getting jerked around like a rag doll behind a boat whose driver didn’t understand the concept of “slow start.” Fun? Not so much.
But that first summer out of college, I learned quickly that if I was going to live with Dave—well, I was going to ski.
And ski.
And ski.
One of the perks of both of us working together—in the same building, no less—was that we could coordinate our schedule. And Dave had the whole thing figured out.
“We’re going in early,” he said. “And we’re leaving early.”
We worked early and left early, which meant we could be home, on the dock, and pushing away from shore before most people had finished their workday. Six or seven nights a week—that wasn’t an exaggeration; it was simply our life. At first, I went because that’s what Dave did, and as the new guy in town, I didn’t have many other after-work plans. But almost without noticing, the lake became my routine, my relaxation, and my athletic training all wrapped into one.
When I started, I was a classic beginner—two skis, awkward stance, arms locked, and absolutely no idea how to cut across the wake. But here’s what happens when you water ski every day: You get good. Fast. By the end of the first week, I could stay upright. By the end of the second, I could drop a ski while still skiing and finish the run on one ski. And then came the milestone every skier remembers:
The boat began pulling the slack out of the rope. I tucked my knees toward my chest and tried to remember everything Dave had told me.
"Ready?"
I took a breath.
"Hit it!"
The engine roared. For the first second there was nothing but water—spray in my face, pressure against the ski, the rope trying to pull my arms out of their sockets. And then suddenly I wasn't fighting the lake anymore. I was standing on it. One ski. I remember thinking, You've got to be kidding me. I'm actually doing this. It felt like a stunt at first—like something only “real” skiers did. But repetition builds confidence, confidence builds technique, and technique builds daring. Pretty soon, the one-ski start became second nature.
Then we took it a step further. I learned how to stand in knee-deep water with one leg raised, the ski angled slightly upward, rope tight, and on Dave’s call—hit it. When the boat surged forward, if your balance was right and your timing was tight, you would rise out of the water like some kind of aquatic superhero. You would barely get wet if you did it right.
And then, in peak show-off form, we mastered the dock start—standing on the wooden dock, rope taut, leaning back just enough, and letting the boat pull you right off the boards like you were launching into space. Once you pull off a dock start, you understand why people love this sport.
Back then, boating regulations allowed us to ski with just the two of us. One person drove while the other skied, and then we'd switch. I loved being behind the wheel. After a day at work, there was something almost therapeutic about it. The steady hum of the engine. The boat running straight across smooth water. The skier carving back and forth behind you. The spray catching the late-afternoon sunlight. The shoreline slowly passing by. For all the noise of the engine, there was something remarkably peaceful about it.
Each run was two trips around the lake. 6 cuts out. 6 cuts back. 6 cuts out. 6 cuts back. And exhaustion. We knew competitive skiers competed in slalom courses and there was an entrance "gate", 6 buoys (3 on either side), and the exit "gate".
Eventually we went all in and built an actual slalom course on Long Lake. What should have been a simple afternoon project quickly became an exercise in precision as we measured distances, checked angles, sighted down the course, and debated whether a buoy might be an inch or two out of place—because neither one of us was capable of saying, “Close enough.” There was plenty of brotherly disagreement, each of us certain our calculation was the right one, but eventually every buoy sat exactly where it belonged. Looking back, I remember less about skiing that course and more about the two of us trying to impose engineering precision on a lake that had absolutely no interest in cooperating.
As we got better—and as all brothers do—we started competing. Friendly competition, of course. Six buoys spaced properly, weaving in and out, forcing tight turns and punishing any sloppy technique. That course was the great equalizer. No arguing. No “well, the boat was too far left” or “the water was choppy.” Just numbers.
There is something deeply satisfying about measurable progress. You can feel like you’re improving, but the buoys tell the truth. And so, day after day, run after run, we tested ourselves. I can still remember the feeling of leaning into a sharp cut, ski edge biting into the water, spray shooting out in a perfect arc, the tow rope vibrating with tension. There’s a moment in every good cut where your body feels weightless, the world feels perfectly balanced as you are almost parallel with the water, and you realize—this is why I ski.
Those two summers changed my body. Water skiing is hard work. Your forearms burn from gripping the handle. Your shoulders and back fight the pull of the boat. Your legs constantly adjust to the water beneath you. Your core works whether you realize it or not. Even the back of my calf would burn from the water continually cutting against it. But none of it felt like exercise. That's the beauty of finding something physical that you genuinely love. You're not counting repetitions. You're not watching a clock. You're simply trying to make the next buoy. And without realizing it, you're getting stronger. There was another side to those evenings that I enjoyed just as much.
Dave had a core group of friends at 3M. And his waterskiing/card parties were well known in Building 42. Typically six to seven of his friends would show up on an afternoon during the week. This happened 2-3 times each summer. There was a wide range of skiing abilities among the group, but none of them were at the level of me or my brother. I was the designated boat driver, and I honestly loved it. Getting everyone into and out of the water safely. It became my unofficial job, and there's a certain amount of pride that comes with being trusted behind the wheel. Dave would prepare the evening meal while we were all out on the boat or the dock watching. A day on the lake beats a day at work anytime.
After a long session on the lake, we’d head inside for the meal and card nights. Time seemed irrelevant—part of the magic of that era. Cards always meant dealer choice, and there were some very creative people at the table. The complexity of the games grew as the evening went on and the beer kept flowing. We only played "nickel, dime, quarter," meaning the maximum ante/bet for each hand was nickel ante, dime bet, and quarter call. This limited the damage that anyone would have for the night and kept the game fun. It also made it very hard to bluff. Dave was an excellent card player and would always seem to come out ahead at these events. I was on the other end of the spectrum. I made up for it by drinking more free beer. My bedroom was only 15 feet away.
The smell of burgers or steaks. Wet towels hanging somewhere. Sunburned people around the table. Loose change piled in front of everyone. Someone inventing a ridiculous variation of poker. Dave calmly taking everyone's quarters. That's what I remember. And believe it or not. Parties went on until 1 or 2 in the morning, and everyone was at work the next day on time. Work hard, play hard was the mantra back in the 80s.
I thought this was simply what life was going to be: work during the day, the lake at night, friends whenever you wanted them, and energy that seemed limitless. I hadn’t yet learned that life moves in seasons—and some of the best ones don’t tell you when they’re about to end.
And as life got busier, I skied less and less. That’s the way it goes. Careers accelerate. Commitments grow. You start replacing lake evenings with other things—responsibilities, relationships, new chapters. But those summers between 1981 and 1983 stayed etched in my memory. The contrast between the corporate world and the freedom of the lake couldn’t have been sharper. And the time with my brother—those shared runs, shared competitions, shared routines—those are the things adulthood rarely hands you again.
Every once in a while, even today, when I’m driving past a lake, and the water is still and glassy, I get that old urge—the one that says I could still do it. I could still get up on one ski. The last time I tried was in 2019. I was confident I could recreate my glory days of youth at the age of 60. I made a discovery that many men eventually make: Your brain remembers being twenty-three. Your hamstrings do not. Anyone reading this story doesn't even have to experience waterskiing to know the answer to that question.
As I was getting pulled out of the water on one ski... Everything felt just like it always did...I can't believe I'm doing this; I'm coming out of the water!!!...but then I wasn't being pulled out of the water fast enough. My front leg extended beyond the comfort zone, but I hung on for dear life. My pride wouldn't let me drop the rope. And then quick as a flash, I tore my hamstring. Game over. I healed quickly, but I never tried that again. I can say I have gotten up on two skis multiple times, and for a "nanosecond," at age 61, I was skiing on one ski after I dropped one. Somewhere there is a photograph that proves that, for at least a fraction of a second, the old skier was still in there.
You rarely recognize the best seasons of your life while you're living them. I can still hear that boat engine. I can still feel the rope tighten in my hands. And somewhere in my memory, Dave is behind the wheel, and I'm young again, cutting hard across the wake. We weren't trying to create memories. We were simply living.
I didn’t realize it then, but those two summers shaped more than my athletic skills. They gave me a routine, a grounding, and a sense of accomplishment at a time in life when everything else was new. New job. New responsibilities. New identity as an adult. But at the end of every day, no matter how complicated the world felt, there was always the lake. After two years, I moved out. I purchased my first house, which is yet another story for my posts. Not far, but not on the lake either.