Marjorie and I were standing on the shore of Long Lake at Camp Newfound looking a quarter mile across the choppy midday water at little Cherry Island. Several of the adult Creative Arts Week folk, including John, had headed out for an invigorating swim there and back with several kayakers keeping tabs. Marjorie was seriously doubtful that she could ever do such a thing, not being a strong swimmer, and I'd never tried either. I told her a friend had said she liked to "swim Cherry" with the slowest camper so she could keep up and they couldn't tell. So we agreed to give it our all together. We paddled, we chatted, we laughed (which didn't help), we swam and floated, chatted and swam more. By the time we triumphantly and limply reached the island everyone else had dried off back at camp. One kayaker was still out there and guarded us on our return against any unobservant boaters. We headed back at half the speed. Long swim short, it probably took us an hour and a half. A lovely, summer day, new friend, hour and a half. She was late to class, but that's okay because she was the writing teacher. Everyone loved her there. And I've always loved my one Cherry swim — with Marjorie.