I’m walking with my sister to the bathhouse in the center of the campground because if we shower there instead of the camper, we can take as long of a shower as we want to without our parents telling us to hurry up because we’ll run out of hot water. Our two best friends, who are also sisters, walk from the other side of the campground and meet us at the bathhouse, all of us ready to wash the sun, sand and sweat off us after another long day down at the lake.

I can smell the coconut and feel the oil still on my skin, beings we apply it multiple times a day, even though all our parents constantly remind us to use sunscreen, which we choose to ignore, except for the quick smear across our already red cheeks. There are grains of sand stuck to my oiled skin, but the current issue of Glamour has informed me that this is essential, and the sand is exfoliating my skin, but we’ll see what next month’s issue says.

We’ve been coming here summer after summer, all of us going back to our own hometowns spread hours apart from each other, yet for 3 months, our families reunite at Vagabond Village where we all have summer homes in the form of campers, some of them big 5th wheels with fancy slide-outs, some of them smaller trailer-style, but all of them filled with BBQ supplies, bug spray, beach towels and wet swimsuits slung up to dry, amongst all the other summer essentials that seem to come in too bright of colors.

The familiarity of each summer day arrives with comfort and anticipation, and looking back on it as an adult, it brings a feeling of yearning, making you feel home sick for a place that felt so happy and care-free.

But it was a ritual, our evening walk to the bathhouse. All of us girls repeating the same day, only varying slightly, for many summers now. We get up from the hard, uncomfortable camper mattress to the smell of our parents cooking us breakfast, the sound of the bacon sizzling in the kitchen. We eat and have mindless conversation because there’s no need to set up a plan for the day as we know what’ll happen. Our mom makes us help cleanup, we brush our teeth, put on those bikinis we’ve never stopped thinking about, and head down to the water, which is slapping against the side of the ivory and teal Glastron boat, that is already sitting amongst the others, ropes and tubes intertwined atop the sundeck, awaiting us to take our place and ride the waves created by our dads, who laugh and joke that it’s the only form of child abuse they can get away with. We spend the day flying over the wake, feeling the cool splash of the droplets coming off the surface, until we are launched into the sky and slap against the hard water, making you lose your breath for a minute, but you pop right back up full of laughter, waiting for the boat to circle around, pick you up and give you another thrill, while your mom takes pictures from underneath her sun visor in the boat, smiling not worrying about work or cleaning the house.

The sun bronzes your skin even darker, your mom constantly reminds you to drink your water, which you’ve left in the cupholder, so it’s piss warm from the same sun rays you feel so thankful for because the cloudy, rainy days at the lake aren’t nearly as fun. A quick break in the day brings lunch where we all go back, make a quick sandwich, and grab a bag of mini chips that sit perched above the fridge in their multi-colored bag, always hoping there’s a Cool Ranch Doritos left. Whether we decide to be in the water or lay on the beach with the Top 100 Billboard Hits serenading us, along with the sounds of laughter from other kids our age, or the endless hounding of parents to toddlers, or fishermen climbing into their own boats, hollering at their sons to grab the bait, we soak it in - the time, the sun, the friendships, the moments, the water, the memories being made. We soak it all up and then it’s time for that evening walk to the bathhouse once again.

After the long shower comes the tank tops, shorts, and mascara while our parents are back at the camper grilling meat, with a side of cut-up potatoes wrapped in tinfoil, no doubt. We laugh, we look forward to the night and we meet up again after supper, walking around the campground to see the familiar faces of the boys we play spin-the-bottle with after our parents have long-since left the bonfire we all sit around.

We continue this throughout the days of the summer, until that cool, crisp, fall air hangs over us like a fog, forcing us to close the campers up and start thinking about that first day of school, walking the halls with our school-year friends, still thinking about our summer friends, a lot at first, but then not so much because - well - time. But come spring, even amongst the wet, dirty, melting snow, you can feel what’s coming; you can hear it, and you think of your summer friends again, counting down the days until you’re together again. The simple pleasure of being back at the lake, the warm days that seem to play on repeat, yet each story and laugh, and kiss from the boy you sat next to at the fire all feel so different, shaping you into someone who will one day look back and appreciate everything those summers gave to you, wishing you could go back and experience it all over again, even if just for one day, sunrise to sunset.