“Does it have a tide?” I asked.
“A very slight one.”
“Are there ever any actual waves?”
“When you get out far enough.”
“Do people swim in it?”
“Sometimes. Usually it’s too cold.”
“It doesn’t smell like the ocean,” I said, but they were skipping stones and had stopped listening. Too many questions, I guessed, but that was okay, because as they threw their stones in long gallops I gazed and gazed, entranced by the runny soup broth texture of the water.
“See—you can’t even see the other side,” my friend said as she whipped a stone across the surface. “And no wind. Every time I go to the Oregon coast I come back looking like a drowned rat or something.”
Lake Superior was technically a freshwater sea, an inland sea, the relic of glaciers, so I’d expected it to be comparable to the ocean. There was nothing I could place that wasn’t oceanic; it was enormous, and the water hushed and breathed. There was nothing about Superior that dwindled its sea-ness, except for the smell and something that was missing, something more than salt. I expected this to change, and I stared and I stared, but the longer I looked, the less like the ocean it became.
“It’s really not much like the coast at all,” I told my friend, and I threw a stone into the water.