How gorgeous is this view?
But I digress… Upon our arrival on Saturday, Matt and I decided we were going to swim from the dock to a floating wooden raft about 25 yards away from shore. The water was pretty shallow, and we could pretty much walk halfway to the raft before the water became too deep, but regardless I almost drowned anyway. See, I enjoy swimming. I really do. What I DO NOT enjoy is smushy, mucky lake bottoms. And sharks. I do not enjoy sharks. Yes, I’m aware that sharks don’t normally frequent freshwater lakes, but I once read an article about a Bull Shark that made its way up the Mississippi River and now I’m convinced that it’s going to happen in Winnipesaukee. (If you are so inclined, here is the link). There is a first time for everything, and you can guarantee that when it DOES happen it will involve me being eaten alive by a shark while I’m sitting contently on a blow up raft reading US Weekly.
So ANYWAY, back to my original story. Even though the raft was fairly close by, (literally I could probably throw a rock and hit it) and even though I was able to walk most of the way out to it, instead I made the ill-fated decision to swim the entire way from the dock to avoid having to put my foot down either directly into a shark’s mouth, or onto the smushy mucky lake bottom. I’m a little what you would call “rusty” at “physical activity of any sort” so there I was, doggy paddling my little heart out and my smokers lungs were NOT HAVING IT. I was about three quarters of the way to the raft when I decided to break procedure and I went to put my foot down, so I could catch my breath and rest for a minute. I couldn’t touch the bottom. I COULDN’T TOUCH THE BOTTOM. Panic set in. I was going to DIE right then and there in Lake Winnipesaukee. Michael Phelps, I am not. I started frantically treading water and screaming for Matt who more or less had to backtrack, throw me on his back, and swim the rest of the way to the raft with me clinging to his back like a koala. I climbed the ladder, collapsed to my knees, thanked the lord for solid ground and allowing me to keep on living this blessed life, and passed out for about a half hour until my heart resumed its normal rhythm. They seriously need to put a defibrillator on that raft. Or Michael Phelps himself.
Sunday we decided to take a ride down to Weir’s Beach to meet up with some friends of ours who were also in Laconia for the weekend. We parked over at Wier’s and walked over to the Marina where Jessica and Stephen have a slip for their boat. We met up with them just as they were pulling in from a long day out at the sandbar. Stephen told us to hop in their (friggen awesome) boat, and he sped us off over to the Naswa all Miami Vice-like. Now, if you’ve never been to the Naswa then I pity you because it personifies everything that is right with this world. It’s an outdoor beach bar right on the water. You can drive your boat up, tie it up to the dock, and get out and walk right down the dock and order up some drinks for you and your “crew” (pun intended because I’m witty like that). You can kick your shoes off, wiggle your toes in the sand, and even take a dip in the water if you feel so inclined! It’s a great place, and no trip to Laconia or the Weir’s is complete without stopping by for a drink or two (or eight in our case). Well after a few drinks we were all feeling a little famished so we went ahead and ordered up some chicken fingers and nachos, typical pub food. As I picked up the last chicken finger, I took a bite and in my drunken, sloppy state OF COURSE I dropped in the sand. So I did what came naturally to me… I hopped down off the stool, picked it up and yelled “FIVE SECOND RULE” for the purpose of 1. informing my fellow cohorts that I was really planning on consuming the sandy chicken finger, as well as to gauge their reactions to my intent of consuming this sandy chicken finger. Now, the law of “Five Second Rule” generally applies under certain conditions. Rule 1. Said article of food falls onto the floor of someone’s home, and 2. Said article of food isn’t porous or greasy enough to absorb anything that may be on the floor. Oh no. Not in this case. Sandy Chicken Finger broke ALL the rules. It was visibly sandy, and no amount of wiping with my cocktail napkin was going to change this fact. I may as well have just dug it out of the ocean like a clam. Jessica and Matt were visibly horrified by what I was about to do (and I was definitely going to do it) but it was Stephen who gave me the go ahead to get ‘er done. Stephen (like me) saw no problem with eating it, which I believe directly corresponds to our blood alcohol level. Stephen is also a Police Officer, so I briskly informed Jessica and Matt that it was safe for me to eat the Sandy Chicken Finger because an Officer of the Law of our Glorious Nation said it was okay to do so. So I did it. Two minutes later we discovered there was another chicken finger buried underneath all of the French fries in the basket. Story. Of. My. Life.
So that about wraps it up! We went home the next night and we were both so sunburned that we took turns rubbing lotion all over each others backs. Seriously, my poor Irish body hasn’t seen sun all year, and I definitely overdid it, but it was worth it. In addition, I’d like to mention that my BABY SISTER TURNED SIXTEEN this weekend. Watch out Massachusetts Drivers, if you thought I was bad here comes the next generation!
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