You catch glimpses, now and then, from the twists and curves of the winding road that sometimes does, and sometimes doesn’t, outline Lake Lure’s contours: a deep green liquid below, a quicksilver slice of shine. Is that the cove? That one? Was it there, that —
And then it’s gone, obscured by steep, tree- and rhododendron-covered slopes. Boxy boathouses hug the hills and are snug against the water’s surface. You can motor or paddle or ski out to the center of the lake, this irregular cross with 27 miles of shoreline, but the appeal — the lure itself — lies in the many coves, the fingers of stillness and “no-wake” zones. It lies, too, in a summertime story where a shy teenager grew up.
Perhaps it’s the drowned town beneath the sunlit ripples — buildings of an abandoned mining town — that adds to an expectant sense of magic. Surely the lake’s history does. From atop Chimney Rock in the early 1900s, Lucius Morse envisioned a high-end resort built around the gorge below. Then came the dam in 1925, and the two year’s time it took the Rocky Broad River to cover the town and fill the landscape. Then came the Depression, leaving the green coves and cool waters of Lake Lure — named by Morse’s wife, Elizabeth — lapping at the foothills of the Blue Ridge. The mountains’ gently rounded, billion-year old-heights are visible wherever you choose to gaze.
Pontoons glide across the lake, carrying revelers or sightseers or some of the town’s mere 1,193 residents, who arrange “tie-ups” on the water, for cocktails or supper. At dusk, red and green bow and stern lights glow as they cruise silently toward shore, and those on land, on cottage porches or boathouse rooftops, watch night fall over the 720 acres of water that, since Dirty Dancing, have moved beyond special to famed. Because Baby grew up on our Lake Lure. She learned lessons about social class and trust and romance. She learned to dance. To let go of fears and inhibitions. The cool, deep-green waters of Lake Lure will do that to you.
Learning to dance isn’t so different, after all, from learning to water ski. The floor is hard, the lake is chilly. Beside an instructor’s, or bound to wooden slabs, your feet feel ungainly and large. You look into your partner’s eyes, or seek the eyes of the person at the steering wheel. Both of them hold your immediate future in their hands.
With banging heart, you tread water, or hold very still. Waiting.
The record ticks; the boat idles and putts. The towrope slowly unspools. An open palm at your back, or a questioning thumbs-up from the boat. Both silently ask, Ready? Then the hard yank of arms in their sockets, the uncontrollably veering skis, the suck at your stomach, the drag at your guts. Until, finally, that rising and lifting, that straightening, triumphant stretch — and you’re away again and unencumbered, flying over the glistening surface of the lake.