Some days are meant for swimming. These are the days in which the sun is shining, caressing one's skin with golden, heated rays. The birds sing out from their perches, and the air holds a certain palpable wellness and benevolence.
This day had started like this, at least to some extent; the sun had been high in the sky, partially shrouded by clouds, and the air had been warm. However, as my friend Brenden and I approached the sands at the beach, the sky had darkened and the wind had picked up.
We vacated my car and started down towards the pier that jutted out into the choppy waters and Lake Michigan like a massive "L," for it was our intention to, because of the poor swimming conditions, merely trek to the end of this pier and let the incoming waves hit the end and splash us.
As he and I stepped upon the cold, unyielding stone, we felt the wind pick up even more. It flowed through the cool air in near visible streams now, stinging my skin and whipping my hair about. We kept on our path though, letting our feet sweep us inexorably and gradually to the crook of the "L." Ahead of us, the waves held the thin strip of stone in its pallid gray hands, fingers reaching across in one place then another.
We continued forward, waiting for the shards of opaque crystal water to crash down, and then hurried along. We reached the end of the pier and the lighthouse loomed above us, reading towards the ominous sky. We looked at each other and smiled. Past him I glimpsed the sugar bowl, a large sand dune, wrapped in mist. We then proceeded to the very end of the pier. Just then a large wave hit, and sent a blue-black wall shooting into the air. It fell about us harmlessly, soaking our clothes.
We laughed, peeled off our shirts and stood yet closer to the edge, daring the waves to remove us from our impenetrable stone loft, still laughing.
Wave after wave crashed into the tip of the pier, causing the water they contained to shoot up into the dark sky. However, nearly a half-hour later, laughing and deafened by the cacophony of water on rock, I noticed a larger than normal roller flicker into my perception. It rolled like a black leviathan towards where we now stood. I backed up immediately, heart in my throat, and called for Brenden to do likewise.
He could not move fast enough. The wave shot into the air as high as the lighthouse and crashed down on him like a fist, knocking him over. It also sent three feet of water sheeting across the ground on which we stood, sending our shirts and Brenden's glasses into the depths.
I had not taken any damage, but as I blinked in the mist, I saw Brenden lying on the ground. Luckily, his considerable weight had not allowed him to be swept away, as I fear almost happened. He sat up and looked at me, fear in his eyes.
"We should leave," I said.
He nodded vigorously, used his bruised hands to hoist himself up, and we walked away. No real damage had been dealt, but it was a close call, and we were lucky to escape unscathed.
Ben Williams is an 11th-grader at Frankfort-Elberta High School.
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