When I was 11, I slept over at my best friend's house for her sister’s birthday. We had waffles the next morning with fruit and syrup. The sun was shining when we finished up from the breakfast table and requested permission to go out. We got on two bikes, old, used and loved. Then we rode down swiftly onto the sidewalk and passed by the morning traffic: People going to work from their sleepy houses. I looked around taking in the magnificent beauty. We faced onwards and headed towards the waves.

We passed downtown Port Hope with its little stores and small houses and kept going, all the way down, heading towards the sparkling lake. When we reached the beach, we parked our bikes and walked towards the waves. The lake was clear and the sun reflected off the water like only water can. We walked to the edge and kicked off our shoes, digging our feet into the rough but warm sand, breathing in the smell of the lake. We could hear the honk of a horn and the waves crashing. A cloud passed over the sun and we shivered in the temporary shade.

We sat cautiously on the edge of a rock wall and dipped our small feet in. The water was cold. It was only May after all, and a chill ran up my legs. We quickly got our feet out and hopped around a bit to try and dry our feet before putting our shoes back on. After our shoes had been secured, we moved to rocks.

Big, flat rocks took up about one quarter of the beach and they were wet with the waves of the lake. They were dark and looked like a skillful artist had drawn them, editing them to perfection. We hopped onto them and moved around for a little while, enjoying the feeling of freedom, the sun on our backs, and the smooth, wet rocks beneath our feet. This is a memory I have had since then, a moment shared with only my best friend, me and the lake.