“Check that out,” Molly says, indicating a parasail kite flying from the back of a speedboat.

“Yikes, looks scary.”

“Looks awesome.” She dips a French fry in her coleslaw, a habit she acquired from Dan ages ago. She gazes dreamily at the sky, studying the little sailing man with stick legs, like a paratrooper GI Joe.

As we watch, the parasail is reeled into the back of the boat, and they tie up at the dock right below the restaurant.

“It’s definitely awesome,” the cute waiter says, coming to refill our iced tea glasses. From the pocket of his half apron, he hands her a card. “Here’s a coupon for $5 off a ride.”

I shake my head. “We won’t be needing—”

“Thanks.” Molly snatches the card. “Thanks a lot.”

“We’re not doing it.” I dole out cash to cover our tab, leaving a generous tip even though I wish he hadn’t put ideas in Molly’s head.

“Come on, Mom. We’ve got time.” Ignoring my protests, she heads down the stairs to the dock, her steps light with excitement. When I get to her side, she’s already talking with the guys in the speedboat.

“It takes fifteen minutes,” she says, “and we won’t even get wet, except maybe our feet.”

“We’re not doing it.”

“Ma’am, it’s very safe. I’ve been doing this for years,” the boat driver assures me.

I hate looking like a stick-in-the-mud. But I also hate the idea of dangling several hundred feet above the lake, tethered to the world by a rope no bigger than my finger.

Molly has that expression on her face. I don’t see it often, but when I do, I know she means business. The stubborn jaw, the fire in her eye. A minute later, she’s signing a faded pink form on a clipboard without reading it, and asking if I’ll pay the fee. I haven’t read the disclaimer, either, but I’m sure it absolves the boat guys of any liability if we happen to wind up at the bottom of Lake Ontario.

Studying the form over her shoulder, I point out one line. “It says here you need to weigh at least a hundred pounds. Last I knew, you were just under that.”

She shrugs it off. “After this summer, I’m well over a hundred.”

The boat guys seem to believe her. They put her in a high-tech life vest and helmet and she kicks off her shoes.

“A helmet?” I ask.

“Just a safety precaution,” the man says.

I want to ask how a helmet is going to keep her safe if she plummets into the lake. I want to say that she’s never tipped the scale past a hundred pounds, but I stop myself. It’s my nature to cite the potential disaster in every situation. I recognize that. So, apparently, does Molly, because she learned to dismiss my fears years ago. She has gone mountain biking, horseback riding, scuba diving. A spirit of adventure is good, I remind myself. It’s small and mean of me to dampen it.