Appalachian Summer

First kiss

Time for another tale from Appalachia—another whisper from the past, where the echoes of my youth still shimmer in the summer heat.

Let’s start at the beginning.

First, there was thunder. Then, lightning. And then, Stan Novak, a former Marine straight out of central casting, flattop haircut and all, blew his whistle and gave us the hand signal.

Veronica and I exchanged glances. She sat 25 yards away, perched on a raised chair eight feet above the crystal-clear water. I was 17; she was 19. She smiled and slipped her whistle into her mouth, its royal blue cord dangling around her neck. Sometimes, when the day was slow, she would twirl it around her finger, left, then right, like a quiet metronome marking the rhythm of an Appalachian summer.

I always let her blow her whistle first. She had seniority, authority, and presence. “Everyone out!” she commanded, her voice carrying across the deep end like the call of something ancient and unquestionable. The kids grumbled, but they obeyed. I covered the low end, twice the size of hers, and followed her lead—whistle, command, exit—the ritual of safety, the ritual of work. No one would be left in the water as the thunderstorm closed in.