Sandbars, Jet Skis & Suspiciously Floating Sea-Doos (Torch Lake Chaos)

Disclaimer: The following account of Bekah’s first trip to Torch Lake may or may not be true. Certain details may have been exaggerated, fabricated, or stolen directly from Nicolas Cage’s diary. Proceed with caution.

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Bekah’s first time at Torch Lake wasn’t just a vacation—it was an initiation into a centuries-old aquatic tradition. Now, historians will argue with me on this, but it’s widely accepted (by me, just now) that Torch Lake was originally dug out by Vikings who got lost on their way to Florida. They abandoned their longships, invented the jet ski 1,200 years too early, and promptly lost the blueprints to history. That’s why today, when you look across the impossibly turquoise water, you can feel the ancient horsepower humming beneath the waves.

So when we pulled up with our pair of Kawasaki Ultra 310s—basically Poseidon’s chariots with cup holders—Bekah was stepping straight into destiny. At first she was skeptical (“This looks like Photoshop in real life”), but by the time we throttled up, she had that same grin Indiana Jones gets right before dodging a giant boulder.

Now, the Great Lakes Ski Riders—that’s who we rode with—are no ordinary group. Legend has it they formed when a group of water-loving knights decided motorcycles were “too landlocked.” They’re the nicest, most hospitable gang you’ll ever meet: they’ll greet you with sunscreen, snacks, and probably a motivational speech about hydration before drag racing you at 70 mph across a crystal-clear inland sea. Think Hell’s Angels, but with better manners and a deep appreciation for SPF 50.

Anchoring time was a sight to behold. Everyone whipped out SandShark anchors like they were participating in some kind of sacred ritual. You’ve never seen unity until you’ve watched 20 jet ski riders screw $40 worth of engineering brilliance into the sandy bottom in perfect synchronization. It felt less like boating and more like watching a secret society plant their relics to summon Neptune. Bekah whispered, “Are we part of a cult now?” and honestly, yes—yes we were.

And the biggest miracle of the day? Not one Sea-Doo sank. Historically speaking, Sea-Doos have about the same survival rate as a Jenga tower in an earthquake. We were all braced for the inevitable “waving arm of doom,” waiting for someone’s ski to transform into an artificial reef. But nope—every last one stayed afloat. It was like watching cats successfully perform synchronized swimming. Disturbing, unnatural, yet deeply impressive.

The ride itself was outrageous. Torch Lake is so blue and perfect that Bekah was convinced the entire thing was sponsored by Fiji Water. She kept yelling, “Are you sure we didn’t teleport?” and at one point accused me of renting a green screen. Every jump, every wave, every spray of water was followed by her laughing so hard I thought I might have to radio in for a rescue. (Not because of danger—just because I was in danger of laughing too hard myself to steer.)

By the end of the day, Bekah had gone full transformation. Sun-kissed, windswept, and absolutely hooked, she climbed off that Ultra 310 looking like she’d just returned from an epic quest. Torch Lake hadn’t just welcomed her—it had knighted her.

So let the record show: Bekah’s first Torch Lake trip wasn’t just a summer outing. It was a collision of history, horsepower, and hospitality. And while I can’t prove that the Vikings invented jet skis, or that the SandShark anchor is secretly a relic from Atlantis, I also can’t prove they didn’t.