Sometimes There's Nothing To Do But Watch

I've been kind of down lately: relationship struggles, friend drama, LOTS of stuff going on in the family that's taking up a lot of time that would otherwise be used focusing on the prior two things, etc. So, I've been doing some intermittent lake therapy.

But I need to back up, because lake therapy isn't new for me and there's context you need to really get into the story. 

https://video.wixstatic.com/video/6f8628_811ff2a611bd4bc58aef146917b11557/1080p/mp4/file.mp4

Nothing to do but read it through.

Lake Therapy: A Working Definition

We live two miles from a Corps of Engineers campground and day use park. Those are two separate places but only because of the way the lake's fingers are shaped. Two separate entrances, two separate guard houses, etc. When I go by myself to the lake, I generally go to the day use park. I buy an annual pass and bring my chair and my cooler and I enjoy the sunshine and a book and a beer or seven.

We also have a camper. I would argue that the campground nearest my home is the nicest on the lake: large sites, almost all of them waterfront, and there's one in particular I really like - it's on a point, surrounded on 3 sides by water, and is also facing the main channel. So it's about the closest you can get to an "ocean"y vibe.

With me so far?

When we go camp at this particular site I like on the lake, we often go for longer stretches, because it's by our home, so we can stop by and grab things we forgot or water the plants or whatever, no stress. It’s also no issue for my SO to go to work from the campground, as it's only a minute or so longer drive to work than it is from our home. Weekday stays are not an issue, but they would be in other places. You could say it’s our spot.

A couple of years ago, we did what we often do, and we camped for a longer stretch of time - two weeks if I remember correctly. It was one of those late summer days that was so pretty you know exactly why you live here and also so hot you wonder why you live here. The dogs were too warm outside, opting to stay in the AC. I finished my work for the day early - hallelujah - and the sun was beating down. I decided to walk down to the beach near our site and enjoy a little lake therapy.

I got my little cart and cooler and chair, donned my swimsuit, and trundled myself down there. It was completely empty. Absolutely perfect for lake therapy after a day of wrangling “The Five Horsemen of the Apocalypse" (five gentlemen that I help with startups). 

I sat at the beach for a while - usually when we're camping, I stay down there as long as possible. I pre-prepare dinner stuff so I only have to reheat, giving myself no need to be back at the camper by a certain time to start cooking. If the SO's day runs late at work, it’s no big deal. Leisurely. 

People were coming and going from the beach area, but nobody was staying for hours and hours like I was. It was tranquil, almost languid. The perfect day in a nutshell and no pop-up thunderstorms in sight.

The White Truck

At one point I noticed there was a crew cab, older white truck making the rounds around the campground. Driving around a campground may sound kind of weird to people who don't camp, but it's honestly not that unusual. People frequently drive through, whether they're staying at the campground right then or not, to scout out sites they may WANT to stay at in the future. It’s sort of a note-taking session; research for future adventures, if you will.

After the third or fourth time that truck went through, though, I started paying a little more attention to it. Because a lap or two around a campground is normal. Three or four is...less normal. 

My mind started coming up with reasons for the anomaly: maybe it was a family, and since they weren't able to get sites next to each other, this truck was just ferrying people back and forth or gathering items for different campers to compile a big dinner or something. 

But then the truck stopped, and I saw it parked at the beach parking lot.

The lot is situated behind the beach, and you can't SEE it from the beach unless you turn around completely or are walking back from the water. I noticed it doing the latter, and since I'd already seen it more times than I wanted to, it was...of note. But not a huge note, really. Just a note.

You have to keep in mind that camping for a few weeks like this is one of the ways we take vacations. We still work, sure, but we have the luxury of enjoying the lake every night after work if we want. And this particular day, I had finished early enough to enjoy both the afternoon and the evening. All of that to say: it was hot, I had music playing, I had a book in hand, I had no responsibilities, and there was definitely some consumption of alcoholic beverages in no real moderation because...I didn't need to moderate for any reason. I was "staycationing".

Nothing happens for a long time except the continued enjoyment of the day. There still aren’t many people at the beach. It’s late summer in NE GA, so when I say it's hot, I mean it is HOT. The lake feels like bathwater almost. 

I had a float to give myself extended bathwater stays if I wanted them. I’ve noticed that most folks around here don't like HOT hot like I like HOT hot, so nobody was really frequenting the beach. 

The truck was still in the parking spot, and there wasn't any movement. I assumed it was someone who'd stopped at the playground or was visiting one of the sites across the main road from the beach - as there are one or two that direction, in the cove of two of the park's fingers. 

When I came out of an extended "bath", though, I saw an older man, in blue jeans and a t-shirt, donning suspenders, and standing in the shade of a tree with a drink in his hand. 

Now when I say older, I don't mean "can't walk through sand easily" older, but I also don't mean "middle-aged". This guy is somewhere past the official age of retirement, but he doesn't appear to be experiencing any real detriments of old age yet. Maybe 60s? He looked like someone's grandpa enjoying his drink in the shade and watching the water. 

So, I smile, sit back down in my chair, refill my beverage, and start back on my book.

He approached me, in view and pleasantly enough. It was in passing, as he’d walked down closer to the water, and I was going in for another “cool down”. He was friendly, as people are at campgrounds, and he commented on the weather or the water or something equally banal. I responded in kind, and then I went out to float for a bit more. Eventually at some point while I wasn’t paying attention, he wandered back up to the truck. I didn’t think much of it.

The buildup and the conversation had made me take notice, but it hadn’t made me overly wary. That’s partly probably because these sorts of things happen to me. I'm not sure if it's because I have a kind face or because I am a tall woman with a decent figure and people think it's a challenge, but people have come up to me, talked to me, offered me things for the entirety of my life. It's not odd for me to attract people’s attention, and I know that older people like to talk. 

The truck pulled out of the parking lot finally, and while I hadn't exactly been on high alert, I was kind of glad he was gone. I just chalked it up to me preferring solo time at the lake, and I went back to my book and my beer and my music, texting intermittently with the SO to see how his day was going and smiling at how good I had it that day. 

Grandpa With a Drink

And then I saw the truck again. Driving past again. Down the finger we were staying on. Again. 

This time he rolled the window down and waved. I assumed he was staying on the finger, just like we were, and was waving to acknowledge our previous conversation. I waved back. 

But then he stopped the truck. Just on the road, kind of pulled off to the side, not in a parking place. 

He left it running and got out, then walked down a fairly steep embankment to the beach and to me. 

I'm watching him now, because this is intentional and sort of odd behavior, but also...I mean he still looks like grandpa and he's got a drink in his hand in one of those clear solo cups. When he gets to me, he offers me the drink. (While he’s talking, he tells me what's in it, but I've forgotten that part of the story by now.)

I kind of laugh awkwardly. I thank him. Decline. Firmly. 

We don't take open drinks from strangers, no matter how many beers we've had in the sun.

This exchange prompts a conversation about drinking on a hot day - it hits the spot and all that. He casually asks me how my supplies are running, since it’s mid-afternoon. There’s still a lot of sunshine left. 

I tell him I'm getting low, but that I have more at the camper. All it means is that it's getting close to time to go. All good things must end.

He smiles and nods…and then he offers to go purchase me more beer, of my choice, on him. Now, at this point I'm pretty tipsy, but I'm also still female and not an idiot. So I'm thinking. I like free stuff as much as the next girl, and beer is by nature closed. It would be tough to spike it, you know?

But, I'm also a little unsettled by all of this. The progression. 

So on the one hand I've got some mild alarms starting to go off. He is just “shooting the shit”, conversation-wise as my dad would say, so there's nothing blaring. 

And on the other hand, I'm thinking he's older and lonely and probably a widower or something. He's missing human conversation and is just trying to keep it going. I’m being paranoid. Ya know? 

I opt to think the best of humanity, since he said he was headed to the store to replenish his own supplies. He’s being nice. Overly so, but still. I tell him he absolutely does not need to buy me any beer, and I thank him for the offer. When he walks back to the truck, still idling and awkwardly parked on the side of the road, I go back to my day.

He leaves. And then, a while later and from behind - like he parked in the lot again - he’s back. And, probably unsurprisingly, he brought beer.

I dump it in the cooler, and we chitchat a little more. I’m wary, but it’s still pretty banal stuff: the book I am reading, how he used to be friends with the guy that owns the restaurant down the street, how we both live pretty near the park, etc. Again, nothing crazy. 

He stays until he’s sweating, then he says he'd better be getting on, and he leaves. 

He Knew Which Site Was Ours

I stay at the beach for a little bit longer, then the SO says he’s on the way back from work (about a half hour drive), so I pack up my stuff in my little cart and walk back to the camper. I let the dogs out, and I clean out the cart, the cooler, the beach bag - basically get my mess from the day resolved. I change out of a wet bathing suit and into a breezy sundress. I start what little dinner prep there is to do. I feed the poor starving dogs and play with them for a while, then pick up poop. Normal stuff. 

When I’m done and the dogs calm down, we just hang out, enjoying the view. And then one of the dogs alerted. And then the other one alerted.

I have German Shepherds. I have had German Shepherds for years. But when I say German Shepherds I don't mean the long-haired, show breed. I mean the sort of scruffy, often mixed with something else, mutt-puppy type dogs that still get a decent size, but range closer to mid than large. 

But the important part of the story is: they still LOOK like German Shepherds. The coloring, the markings, the body shape. Nobody ever asks me what kind of dogs I have.

If you know anything about German Shepherds, they're working dogs. They prefer having a job. When we have them camping, they don't typically have a LOT of jobs - chasing geese, wrapping their leads around fans and trees and our chairs and the camper itself - so the jobs they do have they take pretty seriously. Like protecting the "home space". 

It’s not unusual for them to alert when people walk by. Which, if you've ever been camping, happens frequently. Campers walk. We enjoy it.

I assume that’s what’s happening. I even fuss at the dogs for making such a ruckus. 

But when I look up at the top of our “drive”, the same older man from the beach is standing there, smiling, holding his drink. 

It is safe to say at this point that I am startled. 

And I should note that startled me doesn't respond well. My mind starts racing.

He's talking. I can't tell what he’s saying because being startled makes the blood rush in my ears and the dogs are barking. What the heck is HE doing HERE? How did he even know this was my campsite?

He's gesturing at the dogs. Still smiling. Still standing. Not walking closer, but clearly considering it.

So I whistle. 

It's the dogs' recall, and they both, instantly, turn their backs on him, return to me, and then face him from my side, alert, quiet. 

Either that act or the look on my face or a combination of the two suddenly makes him wonder just HOW well trained these dogs might be. If they recall for a quick but particular whistle, what OTHER commands might they know? 

I can see the thought process happening on his face. He turns himself around and walks away. Quickly.

Getting antsy? Current inventory is here if you need a distraction that won't circle your parking lot.

But that isn't the end of the story.

The Next Year. And the Year After That.

The next year, I see him again. Again at the lake, but this time at the public beach, where I arrive with my book and position myself in the shade, sort of near some other women, everyone just enjoying the afternoon.

There were some issues with the parks opening on the lake this year. The funding isn’t there, the government shutdown is causing problems, and the Corps didn't open any of the parks at the usual time in the spring. Now that they are open, they are overrun. Like, masses of people. Everyone is trying to go to the lake because they haven’t been able to all year. It is a madhouse of parking and beach space and resource allocation.

White truck man spends his time walking the park in his jeans and t-shirt and suspenders uniform with a walkie talkie in hand, enforcing the park's rules and telling people he was liaising with the Corps. I do not believe that.

I didn’t know if he recognized me or not, but he definitely came up to me again. There is no conversation about dogs or camping, like nothing the previous year ever happened. It’s still him chatting about the weather and asking about my book, which is obviously a different one from the last time we spoke. He likes Tom Clancy.

I am less tolerant of the conversation this time, and it’s noticeable. The two ladies sitting near me come up to ask if he’s bothering me. The combination of those two things, I think, cause him to leave.

There are a few more encounters. All of them are brief. All of them are at the lake. One time I see him at the store at the end of the street - the one he presumably bought beer at during our first encounter. I’ve seen him enough by then to be angry, annoyed, wary. I take a picture of the truck, and I send an email reporting him to the Corps of Engineers.

I never hear back.

This April

Fast forward to this year. It’s only April, so it’s just now getting warm enough to go sit in the sun. The lake water is cold, and while there are a few early birds out soaking up the sun on the intermittent 80-degree days, there aren’t many this particular day.

On my third afternoon out at the park, I’m sitting on an almost-deserted beach, under the shade of a tree. There are two girls - I call them girls, but they’re probably more accurately young women, in their early twenties. The two are obviously good friends, and they’re obviously having a good time. They’re giving off good VIBES.

These ladies are a joy to watch. I’m smiling at them, and when one of them compliments my bathing suit, I thank her, smile some more, and tell them I’m enjoying their music. Just girls doing girl things at a beach on a warm day.

And then a white truck pulls into the parking lot. Circles it a few times. Pulls into a space. Stops. Stays.

The girls go for a walk, then sit on the finger under some trees. I can see them chitchatting exuberantly. I can’t hear them but I can see them gesturing every so often. No conversation is quite as absorbing as one you have on a great day with an even better friend in the sunshine with a view of a lake.

I read. Look. Read. Keep the girls in line of sight. Watch the truck.

He finally comes by, holding a walkie talkie in one hand and talking into a cell phone in the other. His voice is officious. He hangs up, looks at me, and says, “there will be an F-15 flying through here in about 35 minutes.”

The impression is I’m sure supposed to be that he’s been talking to someone or other in the Air Force on the phone. I do not believe that. The place isn’t packed so he can’t pretend to be the park police. This is just his new line.

I say, “uh-huh, that’s nice”, then pointedly go back to the book. He takes the hint.

I can still see the truck. He doesn’t leave.

The girls come back from the canopy of trees, and the next time I walk down to the icy water, I stop. We exchange pleasantries, and then I start describing the truck. Both girls nod, like they know exactly the truck I’m talking about. One of them launches into a spiel about how this old guy came up and gave the other girls a drink.

I stammer a little. I don’t mention he’s done that to me - in hindsight maybe I should have - but I do stress that the drink needs to be tossed. Do not drink it. I mention that he hangs around, and that it might be better if they didn’t end up being the only two people on the beach with that truck still sitting in the parking lot. They seem to appreciate the note of caution, because they call a male friend to come out and sit with them.

I notice shortly thereafter - because at this point I’m waiting to leave until either they have someone or the truck leaves - that the truck is pulling out.

I go home. Nothing had happened, but my whole body was in panic mode. I go through the house closing every shutter, locking every door, checking every point of egress to be absolutely certain that nobody can get in. I take the dogs outside and slip off my shoes while standing beside a much larger version of the original male dog that scared this man off, putting my feet directly on the ground.

I breathe. I talk myself down. Slowly I get a little calmer, but never do I actually calm down. My SO is out of town, so I cannot just call him. I wait until he’s back from his dinner. We discuss what happened, and he agrees it is right on the edge of inappropriate. I ask him to use his contacts to find out what to do the next time this happens.

It’s the Sheriff’s Department, as the park is in the county. Now I know the pattern. Now I know the solution.

Sometimes There's Nothing To Do But Watch

Here's the thing I keep coming back to, and it's the same thing I tell people about their plants constantly:

The urge to do something when something feels wrong is almost overwhelming. It's human. It's well-intentioned. And it is, frequently, the thing that causes the most damage.

Overwatering kills more houseplants than neglect does. People feel like they should be doing something, so they do something, and the roots rot in the dark where nobody can see it happening until it's too late. The answer — the actual, correct, horticulturally sound answer — is usually to observe. Document. Look for the pattern across time, not the single yellow leaf. Wait until you have enough information to act with confidence, and then act.

I didn't overreact the first time. I watched. I noted. I documented when I had enough to document. I warned the women near me. I have a plan for next time — the Sheriff's office, not the Corps, who apparently does not answer emails.

I did everything right. And it still cost me the afternoon. Still sent me home to lock my doors in the middle of a sunny day.

That's the part nobody tells you about patience as a strategy. It's not passive. It's not nothing. Watching is work. Waiting is work. Knowing the difference between a yellow leaf that needs attention and a yellow leaf that just is — that takes practice and it takes something out of you every single time.

The lake is where I go to do nothing on purpose. To reset. To not be in charge of anything for a few hours.

He keeps showing up in it, circling the parking lot, and I keep having to be in charge of something.

But I'm still going back.