May Two-Four.

You pull up Friday night, or Saturday morning if the 400 was being typical for a long weekend, and you decided to skip the additional hours sitting in traffic. The truck's still half-packed, the water's still turned off, and the dock needs to go in. Someone has to crawl under the cottage to find the valve.

But none of that matters because you're here.

By mid-morning Saturday, the dock is in. Not level, but in. The sun is doing its best to feel like summer. The trees haven't leafed out yet....They're that pale, bright spring green colour that doesn't quite look real. The lake is glass. Not a boat on it.

You walk to the end of the dock, coffee in hand, eyes still adjusting...

And you look down.

The water has that early-season dark look to it. It isn't ready. You aren't ready.

Someone on the deck calls out. "You going in?"

You take a sip, put the coffee down, and stand there in your bare feet and hoodie, just staring at the water like it owes you something.

It doesn't.

You've done this before. For many years, actually, and the first dip is never pleasant. It has never once been a good idea on paper. And yet...

You pull the hoodie off.

There's a moment right before you jump where your brain runs through every reason not to. The water is 14 degrees, maybe 12. It's May. The lake hasn't caught up to the calendar. Your feet are already numb against the aluminum frame. You could go inside. You could wait until July like a sensible person.

But that's not why you're here.

You jump.

For a second and a half, you stop being a functioning person. The water hits your chest, your lungs lock, and every thought you brought up from the city is gone. The meetings. The inbox. The grievances. ALL replaced by one word....

COLD.

You come up gasping. Laughing, maybe. Swearing, definitely. Three strokes to the ladder. You pull yourself out like you survived something. Skin buzzing. Heart pounding. Grinning from ear to ear.

And then it's summer.

Not officially, at least not on the calendar. But we all know that May Two-Four is when it starts. The screen door slamming. The grill warming up for the first time. A boat starting somewhere across the bay. Wet feet on warm wood. A towel someone thought to bring down but nobody thought to unfold.

The first dip doesn't prove anything. It doesn't need to. It's just how the season opens every year.

Same freezing water. Same reset.