He'll Always Be 16, and It'll Always Be Summer

On a Minnesota Lake Long Ago, Memories Were Made That Would Last a Lifetime

He was the boy next door. A skinny blond 14-year-old from California who came to spend the summer with his grandparents on a lake in Minnesota. He had big black glasses and an infectious laugh and his name was Dick.

When I was 13, my family rented a cottage from his grandfather. It was nicknamed "One Jump" because it was one jump away from Dick's grandfather's house. We so loved the spot on the north shore of Lake Melissa that we rented the same white and gray cottage for several more summers. My parents would pack up our station wagon in Tucson, pick up my grandmother in Fargo and then drive to the nearby Minnesota lake for the summer.

I look back on those Lake Melissa days as some of the most magical of my life.

Dick was my first friend on the beach. He made me laugh and took me and my two sisters for rides in his grandfather's motorboat, mischievously gunning the motor and swiftly turning the boat, practically tipping us into the lake.

Dick and I later met many other kids our age on the lake and spent carefree days water-skiing, sailing and swimming. On cool summer evenings we gathered by firefly light at each other's cottages to joke and talk, listen to music. On the beach, we had bonfires, shot off fireworks and ate homemade ice cream on the Fourth of July. It was a glorious way to grow up.

For some people, the friendships forged at 14, 15 and 16 are deeper and stronger than the ones made later in life. They somehow leave a bigger imprint on your heart, especially those grown during the sweet carefree days of summer. Even though you may not talk or see each other for years afterward, summer memories remain warm, the shared experiences vivid, and the bonds stretch over time.

We didn't keep in touch during the school year. Still, summer after summer, we returned to the lake and each other -- Dick, Birch, Toby, Martha, Cindy, Nancy, Ann, Snyder, Danny, Kris, T.H. and others. As we grew older, some of us paired off in summer romances. But Dick was like the older brother I never had.

Around the time my sisters and I went off to college, my parents stopped renting the cottage. I stayed in touch with several lake friends, but after a few years fell out of contact with most of them.

Thirty years went by. In March, I received a letter. Dick had married a woman named Marie and moved to Seattle. After his grandfather died, he bought the summer cottage. He eventually moved to St. Cloud, to be closer to Lake Melissa. He was no longer known as Dick; his wife and friends called him Richard. He had a little dog named Barney, and his love of sailing as a kid had grown into a lifelong passion.

But the letter Dick sent to his friends was not about all that.

It was about how all of that was going to end.

"Many of you know me as a sailor, so I'll use a metaphor . . . I'm afraid I've run aground at high tide this time and need to explain why I may not see you again," he began.