There are seasons in life you don’t see coming—chapters that don’t announce themselves with fanfare, yet 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. For me, one of those chapters began the moment I graduated from Iowa State in May of 1981 and took my first real job at 3M. I was barely 22, carrying that mix of confidence and cluelessness that only a new graduate can pull off, and ready to step into the adult world.

Moving into Long Lake 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 in Aurora. 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.

So 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.

The 6 A.M. Work Strategy

One of the perks of both of us working at 3M—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.”

Early meant 6:00 a.m. start.

Leaving meant 3:00 p.m.

Which meant by 3:30 p.m., we were pulling into the driveway. By 3:40, we were walking onto the dock. And by 3:45 p.m., the boat engine was rumbling to life as we pushed off from shore.

Six to seven nights a week. That wasn’t an exaggeration; it was an honest statistic. At first, I was doing it because it’s what Dave did, and also because I was the new guy in town with no other after-work plans. But slowly, almost without noticing, the lake became my routine, my relaxation, and my athletic training all wrapped into one.

Learning the Ropes—Literally

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:

Starting on one ski.

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.

The Mirror Rule and Brotherly Rhythm

Another part of the era that made this even more convenient was the boating regulations. Back then, if a boat had a rearview mirror, you didn’t need a third person as a spotter. Just skier and driver. I'm not sure if that has changed. So with just the two of us, we could ski nonstop—switching back and forth, one on the lake, one behind the wheel, and both getting equal turns. 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 a entrance "gate", 6 buoys (3 on either side), and the exit "gate".

And I’ll be honest: there was something almost therapeutic about driving the boat after a long day of work. The hum of the engine. The straight line across smooth water. The spray arching behind the skier. It was peaceful in its own way.

The Slalom Course: Six Buoys and a Brotherly Competition

As we got better—and as all brothers do—we started competing. Friendly competition, of course. Eventually, we went all in and built an actual slalom course on Long Lake. 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.

Did you get all six buoys or not?

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 made me stronger—arms, back, legs. Skiing isn’t for the faint of heart. You’re constantly resisting the boat’s force. Your forearms ache. Your back calf literally has a burn from the water constantly cutting into it. Your grip gets tested. Your core works overtime. But with every run, you build strength and endurance without even thinking about it.