One summer, my family rented a small summerhouse in Maine. It was painted light blue, a faded dusty shade of old paint, weathered by years of wind. Surrounding the front yard, was a sturdy-looking gate, in the same worn condition as the quaint little house. Several piles of firewood were stacked neatly against the gate, ready to fuel a fire. At the side of the yard, was a beaten spot just big enough to park a car. I stood close to the house, running my hands over the chipping paint. Then I stepped up to the front door, unmindful of the orders to help unpack. The steps creaked under my weight, as I peered tentatively in through the front door. My eyes perused the wooden walls. Tattered photographs of men proudly holding up their fish, beaming at the camera. A painting of a brilliant sunset over the water. As I continued to study the room, a photograph caught my eye. It was a picture of boats bobbing on the water, tied to the dock. Then suddenly I recalled that my father had said there would be boats. I rushed over to the sliding door and pulled it open, slipping off my sandals. I hopped quickly down the steps, only to stop short. Instead of a backyard, there was water. I stared out over the glassy surface, staring at the green mountains on the other side. I gazed at the reflection of mountains on water. There were twisting paths running up and down the mountains. Ski trails! I laughed as surprise registered in my mind. I stepped closer towards the water, peering into the shallows. A small cluster of little fish swam among the rocks. I smiled at them. Sighing, I closed my eyes, imagining how fun my vacation would be. Thinking back, I can remember how the sun-warmed sand felt good against my bare feet. Scattered among the grains of sand, were shiny flakes of mica, glinting in the sunlight. An abrupt noise jolted me out of my daydream. “Sam! Carry your luggage up to your room!â€