Dudes in Scuba Gear in the Family Room

There are snippets of fragments of memories that comingle intrigue and sheer terror. I have kids—I've had them for a while now—and I can imagine how most of the things that adults do seem utterly bonkers to them. Considerably more bonkers than the reverse of that equation, of that I'm positive.

Growing up on Christmas Lake Point was a blessing. There was a certain degree of gravitas afforded anyone with GPS coordinates that ended in "Christmas Lake Point." And yet, as a bewildered kid, it was hard to explain everything I saw and experienced there. Especially in the ten-year period between birth and my parents splitting in '82.

I do know we lived on a western suburban Minneapolis lake amid a gaggle of wealthy folk. And while my dad had a solid office gig selling weapons to the Europeans, and my mother ran her own beauty salon, we had not ascended to the same upper financial echelons as many of my friends' parents.

At some point in the late '60s, my folks essentially stumbled into the most profitable rent-to-own real estate situation in history. OK, probably not in history, but the difference between what they paid to purchase their rental cabin on Christmas Lake Point and what my father eventually sold it for was in the $700K range (give or take).

Anyway, shortly after the purchase, the cabin was torn down and my maternal grandfather replaced it with a sprawling 4,000 sq. ft. rambler. The new home was decked out with the most gaudy interior design trends of the epoch. It was a poster-home for the funky, groovy, kaleidoscopic aesthetic that dominated.

Passing through the front door, your eyes were drawn to the side-by-side living room and dining room featuring carpet as white as driven snow and pink foil and fabric wallpaper that you could pet like a kitten. A smattering of lead crystal accruements like lighters, ashtrays, and a spectacular punch bowl (with sterling ladle) took up space on various tables and buffets. Walking from the dining room through the pocket door into the kitchen you were greeted with yellow linoleum flooring, dark walnut cabinets, taupe laminated countertops, and mustard appliances. A veritable cornucopia of vibrant plastic fruit and vegetable displays punctuated the flamboyant landscape. Continuing from the kitchen into the family room landed you on some of the most plush brown shag carpet ever made. A massive stone wall with and indoor BBQ and fireplace in the center was flanked by humongous dueling perpendicular brown and orange davenports. A wrought iron and wooden chandelier that hung between the sofa's looked as though it was salvaged from the captain's quarters of a pirate ship. Needless to say, we grew up in a very colorful time.

The rest of the house was no less garish, but no less fantastic.

Getting back to the notion of crazy shit adults do...my little brother and I witnessed all manner inexplicability over the years. One such mystifying event occurred the day we found a pair of dudes sitting on the fireplace hearth casually chatting with our folks. Normally a couple of strange men hanging out in our family room wouldn't make the top 100 list of crazy shit, but they were both dressed in head-to-toe in wetsuits. Each possessed a large gear bag parked in the foreground on the floor.

Christmas Lake is a unique suburban lake. At the time, it was considered one of the clearest lakes in the state due to the lack of a public access. It was also 90 feet deep in a couple of spots, including just to the left of our dock. The combination of clarity and depth attracted a fair amount of interest from local SCUBA hobbyists. But lacking a public access, you needed to know someone living on the lake in order to get onto the lake in the first place.

I was too young to be privy how these mermen had finagled their way into my house. But it was clear even to me that my father was somehow integral. He fancied himself a bit of a James Bond type, and this was right up his alley. In retrospect, it had a very Wes Anderson Life Aquatic vibe. Also, the old man watched a ton of The Undersea World of Jacques Cousteau on PBS on weekends. So, this nonsensical scene probably made more sense than naught.

As I lurked in the back of the room and silently observed this strange negotiation, I couldn't help but be utterly captivated. Despite only being five or six at the time, I got the distinct impression something fantastical was happening. I was pretty positive other kids in my school never had SCUBA divers in their family rooms. I was pretty sure their fathers didn't pull such capers. And with the exception of my friends who also lived on Christmas Lake, I was pretty sure the other kids who also inhabited my tiny safe suburban snow globe didn't have a backyard anywhere nearly as magical as Christmas Lake Point.

Eventually, we followed the divers down the switchback path that led from the basement patio to the lakeshore. I stood on the deck as my father helped the divers get ready to shove off the end of the dock into the depths. I could only imagine the wonderous things they'd encounter at the bottom of the lake. I desperately wanted to see what they saw. I don't recall them stopping in after their dive. As far as I know, they just dissolved into the depths for all of eternity.

Years later, during the fleeting Minnesota summers, my brother and I would explore the water ourselves. We'd don masks, snorkels, and flippers from the lake shed and kick off into the relative depths of the lake just off the tip of the point. Mostly on weekend mornings, it was a tradition I relished. There was something so peaceful and wonderous about underwater life. And on our little weekend excursion, I always wondered what those divers saw when they explored the deepest corners of our little lake.

Looking back today, I'm struck by how idyllic and American-dream-like the setting truly was. It was a perfect spot to be a kid in the late '70s and '80s. The old man eventually sold it just before the turn of the century. But up to that point, it retained all of its majesty regardless of how too-old I became or how too-busy I was to visit. It was truly the only place you'd find dudes in SCUBA gear in the family room.

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© 2023 – ∞ B. Charles Donley