It’s been hot here lately. Genuine, sweat-on-the-brow, pass-me-the-lemonade, tan-these-pasty-thighs hot. I’d packed a bathing suit when I moved to Newfoundland as a kind of two-piece wishful thinking, never expecting to be frolicking in the North Atlantic any time soon. But some friends have been visiting, earning their keep through physical labour and fixing the place up, so we thought a nice walk along the old rail bed towards Trinity might be just the thing to unwind. Along the way, a group of giggling teens passed us, towels draped over their shoulders, hair dripping, shorts plastered to their thighs. Swimmers! The pond is just a few hundred meters that way, they said, pointing down the path. Fresh Water, it’s called, which is only half true because it feeds into the sea. A beautiful waterfall pours into it at the other side, and massive rock cliffs loom on all sides, protecting us from wind but not sun. The pool is warm and clear and clean and absolutely the most refreshing place to dip your toes (or your whole body) during these dog days of summer.
When we got home, tanned and dripping and hungry, we made our homemade pasta noodles for a giant lasagna which we carried up our hill, arms laden with wine, blankets, and a guitar. Some guests joined in our festivities, and we sat scraping the last streaks of sauce and cheese from our bowls in famished silence, then erupted in songs and laughter until the stars were out and bright overhead. When the evening chill set in, we lit the fire and gathered round it to tell stories. What a day.
We plan on visiting Fresh Water again and again and again, so long as there’s sun in the sky and good company to join us. So come on over, bring your bathing suit and a cold beer, and we’ll make tracks for Fresh Water.