The warmth and faint viscosity of late-summer lakewater.

The dry pine needles and hot, hot gravel underfoot.

A ride in the car, to town, to buy some beer and corn.

The raft, or what do you call it, the float. The cold and probably murky water underneath, forbidding, like the space below the bed, you were a kid.

The profusion of tin foil. Enfolding unappealing charred and gray leftovers off the grill.

The sunset and later, stars.

Thin plywood walls to keep separate the cabin's drowsy inhabitants from the mosquitos and the dew.

The loons with their nearly human cry.