While canoeing back from a portage route hike to our campsite in the interior of magnificent
Algonquin Park, we (the whole navy of canoes) caught sight of a clearing on the heavily
tree-lined shore. The spot was a rocky outcropping with a lone tree and from the tree hung a
rope tied on one end to a stick. It was recognized as a good spot as ever to go swimming, especially
after the uneventful hike, and the canoes aimed for shore.
Once on shore, one by one we lined up to try out the swing; we had all missed this particular
ritual of growing up. Each camper who attempted the jump -by reflex I suppose- refused to
let go of the darn stick at the right time so as to dip ever-so-elegantly into the cool, dark lake.
A few unacrobatic characters -I refuse to name names- held on to the stick for far too long that landed damn near flat into the lake. Ouch. Some gave up but a few brave souls, including
yours truly, refused to give up and were determined to perfect this strange art of swinging into
water a la Tarzan ishtyle (along with his strange howl:)
We had such a obscenely fabulous time!