“I go to the hills when my heart is lonely,” sings Julie Andrews in The Sound of Music. When I’m lonely, I go to the boat landing in Callicoon…for a swim. I call it a swim but it’s really a dip, and a social because there’s always a chance of adventure or shall I say misadventure?

First, I watch a bevy of flotation devices—kayaks, Old Towne Canoes, and colorful tubes including one adult-sized pink dragon—come and go with their tattooed people, and the sun. Next, a precocious four-year-old gets pulled from the water by her mom, “Why do I have to get out?” she begs. “For a talk,” says her mom.

“But we’ve already had that talk!” she replies having been told earlier not to swim in the strong current. I’m hip deep in it when she gets back in and I think, as a way of testing mom, she swims right to me. It’s allowed because I offer myself up as a goal post—usefulness means less lonesome.

But as soon as the little girl gets the chance, she lets go and swims further into the current. Her mom quickly intercepts and pulls her out for good. Just before they leave, the little girl sends me a virtual hug from the shore and, like an angel getting its wings, a goal post makes a friend.

A stone’s throw away, a dad and his two-year-old son are skimming stones. The kid’s having a terrible tantrum so I float over and hand him a gem of a skimmer. He smiles, gets real quiet, and for a moment even looks happy. There’s a connection and then a quick wind-up as he flings the stone hitting me directly in the forehead. “We don’t throw rocks at people,” the dad gently instructs while handing the child another rock, which the kid promptly throws full-force at me.

This time I duck and the boy squeals with delight. For him it’s a peekaboo game. For me, it’s a panic attack. I go underwater for a few seconds and when I emerge, another couple (this one childless, thank goodness) is trudging down the boat landing. They seemed married because there’s an undercurrent of endless disagreement.

The wife looks fetching in her hot pink bikini while the husband intrigues with his single shoulder-length golden earring—the kind you might wear with an evening dress. Together, they’re dragging a small inner tube, an anchor, a cooler, towels, life jackets, a fishing rod and a tree branch with what appears to be a noose tied at the end. “What’s that contraption for?” I ask pointing to the stick with the noose.

“It’s his paddle!” interjects the wife rolling her eyes at what’s obviously a contention between them. After they squeeze themselves and all their fashionable gear into one small tube, the husband uses the stick to push off. I’m torn between getting more specifics on the noose (and possibly the earring), and just never knowing as the two of them disappear downriver.

Dogs of all shapes and sizes, with owners leashed, come and go—some for a drink; some for a soak. And then, a woman with a horse of majestic mass trots down the boat landing. This must be a stallion, I think. “He just needs to cool off,” shouts the owner. “As all stallion’s do!” I shout back but my voice is obscured by the horse’s already incredible thrashing and splashing. I’m trapped and, by God, no longer feel lonely. It’s Studio 54 on the waterfront and I have to make a break for it only Secretariat (or if you’re of a certain age like me, Trigger) is blocking the way.

I pray that Bianca Jagger (some of you will have to google this) will come along and ride that bronco home while confetti falls from the sky and glittery eagles swoop and soar overhead.