July 13, 1999 — The corrugated steel body of the boathouse amplified the persistent pitter-patter of raindrops striking the structure’s small frame. I stared out the door, watching round ripples form on the lake’s surface, wondering if I would ever get the opportunity to learn how to water ski.
I had my doubts. My lesson had already been postponed from the previous evening, when torrential downpours made skiing seem more likely on Green Street than Lake Lanier.
The rains weren’t as heavy on this day, and I thought we might still go ahead with our plans despite the storm. I knew I was going to get wet regardless, and it was beginning to seem like rain would stay in the Georgia forecast for the rest of the summer.
But it didn’t come to that. Eventually the pitters and patters occurred less frequently. The ripples gradually disappeared from view. I think even the reclusive sun made an appearance.
“It is beautiful out there now,” said Lee Snider who, with his wife Kim, took on the uncertain task of teaching me how to ski. “This is classic ski water here. This is going to be perfect.”
Great, I thought. The water was perfect. Everything — from the Sniders’ top-of-the-line water skiing boat to the “classic” glassy water of north Lake Lanier — was perfect. I ran out of possible excuses for failure.
It was all on me. And, perhaps unknowingly, Lee emphasized that with his next statement.
“Lots of times for people that are really athletic and do things like that well, it’s a snap,” said Lee, 41, a Gainesville exercise physiologist. “I got up the very first time I tried. For some people it takes a few times, but if you have any athleticism at all …
“Not to put the pressure on you.”
Thunder sounded in the distance as we backed the boat out of the Sniders’ boathouse. It seemed Mother Nature was putting a time limit on my lesson.
Great. Even more pressure.
While Lee scoped out a stretch of water, Kim repeated the pointers she had given me in the boathouse as we waited for the rain to stop.
Relax. Lean back in the water. Let the life vest hold you up. Tuck your knees to your chest, pointing the skis straight ahead and out of the water. With arms outstretched, hold the handle between your legs. Relax. Let the boat do the work.
“The hardest part is getting up,” said Kim, 35, a physical therapist. “Once you’re up, you’re just out there on two sticks trying to balance yourself.”
Lee and Kim, who actually went water skiing on their first date a couple years ago, have advanced beyond “two stick” skiing, preferring now the “one stick” slalom method. Lee is currently training with the intention of competing in the sport next summer.
I was floating behind the boat, awaiting my first attempt, going over Kim’s instructions in my mind, when Lee yelled back, “OK, are you ready?” He chuckled.
“I guess,” I replied.
He gunned the engine and the boat quickly pulled me up — and over. I flew out of the skis and head first into the water. Mountain bikers would call this a face plant.
For some reason I didn’t immediately release my grip of the handle, either. I let the boat drag me, face down in the water, for several feet.
“I forgot to tell you one thing,” said Kim as they approached me with the boat. “Let go when you fall.”
My second attempt lasted about as long as my first and had a similar outcome. Only this time I fell backward. I did remember to let go, however.
The ever encouraging Kim yelled back, “Third time’s a charm.”
Well, maybe. I got up on my third run, kind of. Hunkered down in an awkward position, I waited a couple of seconds before falling.
A charm? No. A start? Sure, but a slow one.
It wasn’t until attempt number 15 (which is at least divisible by three) that I truly skied — standing up straight — for a prolonged period of time.
Before then, the Sniders were the definition of patience, an important quality for water skiing instructors to have. They kept me going with statements like, “It’s a blast once you get up. Trust me.”
Although my early attempts all concluded with the same result — my body crashing into the water of Lake Lanier (which, by the way, was a comfortable 81 degrees) — I managed to vary my method of entry quite a bit.
Sometimes falling forward, sometimes backward, sometimes over to one side. Sometimes losing both skis, sometimes one, sometimes none. But never did I manage to stand straight up. That is, until number 15.
I got up clean. I stood up straight. I was skiing. Kim screamed her approval.
I was up, gliding along at 25 mph, but I wasn’t sure what to do next. After about 20 seconds, I let go. I glided to a stop and for a moment, a very short moment, it seemed as if I were walking on water.
The thunder sounded again. This time it was closer. The sky was starting to darken again. Time was running out.
We sneaked in several more attempts in which I, with varying levels of success, tried to do more than just stand behind the boat. I guided my skis outside the boat’s wake, and then back over it to the other side — and a couple of times I even managed to stay up.
The ripples began to reappear on the water. My instructors were starting to get wet. It was time for lesson one to end.
On attempt number 24 I skied all the way back to the Sniders’ house.
“You’re persistent,” said Kim. “That’s what it takes.”
The pitter-patter had made its return to the boathouse. I hope to make a return soon, as well.
I want to see what this one-stick skiing is all about.