Weekdays are the worst for me.  I sit around idle, a dark cover over me, destroying any happy mood I might have otherwise.  The sun is blocked from my view, and I feel like a fish out of water in this place.

The cold season is my bane, and I fear it approaching.  I only want to be on the water, feeling the sun beat down on my back.  I want to see my summer friends again, and race and glide over the waves.

When the weekend hits during the warm season, with crystal skies and searing temperatures, my mood is lifted.  I finally shed that dreaded shell and prepare for my weekend under the burning sun while skimming over the refreshing waters of Beaver Lake.

It always takes so much longer than I can bear to reach the lake.  This is where I come alive.  There is nothing I love more than to shoot over the surface of the water at top speed.  There are no yellow or white lines I have to stay between – my only bounds are the sandy shores and towering bluffs that surround my territory.

When I am out here, I constantly whirr with my freedom and excitement.  I chase after others like me and we race, sometimes with a clear destination or finish in mind and other times without.   Sometimes we form groups and show off our own tricks, kicking up fierce waves and splashing each other – cooling off while showing off.

I am devastated when it all comes to an end.  Sunday evenings take away the lake, take away my freedom, and by the time I get home, all I have left of the lake are memories and grime from the waters near the boat ramp.

I return back home, back to Springdale, where the gloomy, restricting cover returns, keeping my spirits repressed and trapped within its shadow.  But under this cover, the real me shines, waiting to return to the lake and sparkle under the sun.

This is a story about how I am most like my jet ski.