Summer Guide 2003

The surface of the water was clear and pristine as I set myself up for the putt. Then, whee! There flew my golf ball out into the pond. Ploop. Missed again. To me, summer has always been the perfect time for sports. Golf, tennis, watching guys. I remember my freshman year, right after Daddy bought me my first BMW convertible, my friends and I drove it to the Reno Hilton where we bought, like, three buckets of balls. I thought it was a great idea. We were practicing our golf shot and checking out the guy action.

It didn’t take long to find some of that. The guys next to us kept staring, and I tried not to sneak a few looks back at them. I didn’t have to look, actually. I could smell their masculine scent wafting my way on the fresh late-afternoon breeze. I inhaled deeply, and suddenly one guy was, like, standing right behind me. His white sleeveless shirt looked a little damp, and the tattoo of a bright canary on his muscular shoulder glistened with sweat. “I like songbirds,” he said, and I fell into his arms. When his lips met my own, I could taste the musky nicotine and stale beer he’d been drinking, and my heart melted.

It was my first profound sensual encounter. But not my last. Guys in polo shirts with minty breath just don’t much do it for me, anymore. But now that I’ve turned 28, it seems that’s the only type of guy I see any more. Daddy’s been encouraging me to see more of Charles this summer, since he’s like coming back to Reno from Stanford for a few months. He’s nice and all, but I’m not sure Charles is my type. I want someone who smells like a real man. <div align="right">—BUFFY</div>

Star-gazing at Squaw Valley
So Charles called, and he wants to take me out on a date to Squaw Valley. We’ll be getting a room, playing some tennis and eating at Alexander’s overlooking Lake Tahoe. After dinner, we’ll ride the cable car to High Camp—it runs until 10:40 p.m. From what I hear, Squaw Valley has three weekends of star parties: June 28-29, July 26-28 and Aug. 28-30. I think I’ll bring a warm jacket. Charles has been there before, and he went on and on about how there’s no light pollution—or air pollution—up at that elevation. You can see planets and star clusters—the Milky Way and, like, meteor showers. He makes it sound romantic. “A glittering tapestry that stretches over the Sierra.” Sigh. If only Charles were, well, tattooed or pierced or something. <div align="right">—Buffy</div>

Woodwind sailing
I was once invited to a wedding that took place on a sailboat on Lake Tahoe. It wasn’t a society wedding or anything, just a friend I knew from prep school who’d chosen to assert her independence when her daddy told her she had to keep her grades up or find a less expensive school. Well, she certainly put him in his place. She quit college and married an interior designer named “Shep.” Shep, like the fourth Stooge. Anyway, I fell in love with the boat, the captain and its crew, and I go back at least once every summer for a cruise. It was a 40-foot trimaran called the Woodwind. Now I’m old friends with the entire crew. We just sip champagne, listen to Jimmy Buffet and let the breeze take us where it will. I like to close my eyes and pretend I’ve been captured by a handsome, one-eyed buccaneer who is taking me to his South Seas getaway. These days the Woodwind leaves from Camp Richardson Resort and heads for Emerald Bay. There’s also a Woodwind II, a much larger 55-foot catamaran. Who says size doesn’t matter?<div align="right">—Buffy</div>

Rider’s Edge
Sometimes I enjoy making my parents just a little uncomfortable. That’s why this summer, I’m learning to ride a Hog. Harley-Davidson of Reno has Riders’ Edge courses where you can learn to ride a Buell Blast in four days. There’s a women-only class that starts on July 17 and it costs $275. That’s a bargain because after I pass the class, I can go right down to the Department of Motor Vehicles and get a motorcycle endorsement for my driver’s license. The Riders’ Edge instructors let me use a Blast, a motorcycle with a low center of gravity that’s easy to maneuver. Sounds super-safe to me, but Mother and Daddy don’t need to know that. I’m going to get shopping for a helmet, full-fingered gloves and some boots for riding. A guy named Matt who helps run the program says it’s a cool class. I imagine myself in leather riding down the Interstate. Maybe I’ll even get my own tattoo—something not too ostentatious, maybe a cute little devil on my ankle. To sign up, call 329-2913. <div align="right">—Buffy</div>