At twilight, the glassy black water and dark green foliage that surrounds Rice Lake obscures the distant horizon. But my eyes remain fixed on a point across the lake, where the evening before, the moon rose brilliantly in the night sky.

I along with other family members and friends are standing on the dock at Southview, a fishing resort in Ontario, Canada, where we have gathered on the second day of our vacation to say goodbye to our friend.

Vacations at Rice Lake have always been a time for us to shed life's daily tensions, enjoy the outdoors and renew friendships with families we see only occasionally in our everyday lives.

While our recent trip to Rice Lake was restorative, it also was a time for us to remember the brief life of Austin Craig, who had vacationed with us for almost two decades. Austin died last September from an undetected heart problem while playing volleyball with his friends. He was 26 years old.

An often troubled youth who once sported a Mohawk, Gothic clothing and tattoos, Austin had challenged authority at every turn in his younger years. More recently, though, he had assumed the look and demeanor of a more settled young man. He and his longtime girlfriend, Katie, had bought a home and were planning to marry.

Like all things Austin enjoyed, he embraced our Rice Lake vacations with unmatched energy and enthusiasm; he fished in the mornings with his brother and sister, trolled for walleye, water-skied, and partied late into the night.

Our trip to Rice Lake this year was the first our group had made since Austin's death, and, amid the pleasures of the week, we also took time to reflect on our loss, to remember someone who for so many years had been an integral of our summer vacations.

Our memorial to Austin began shortly after sunset. We gathered at the Craig's cabin, where Austin's mother, Michelle, sister, Meredith, and brother, Patrick, were staying. There we watched a slide show, set to Irish music, of Austin's short but adventuresome life: Austin as a baby, in his mother's arms. With Katie, all dressed up for a friend's wedding. On a fly-fishing trip in the Adirondacks, tanned and virile, showing off his big catch. And on his last visit to Rice Lake, sitting on the bow of a boat, his back silhouetted against the setting sun, his fist clenched skyward in triumph — of what we didn't know.

Slowly, solemnly, we left the Craigs' cabin and made our way to the dock, where we would say our final goodbyes; there, Austin's mother would cast his ashes into the lake he so enjoyed.

Standing quietly under the moonless sky, I kept my eyes fixed on the distant shore. As Michelle stretched out her arm and the ashes drifted soundlessly to the water below, the brilliant yellow globe of the full moon crested the horizon.

We hadn't planned Austin's memorial to correspond with this celestial event, but sometimes nature knows best how to punctuate the passing of one of her children. We knew we had lost someone special.

Linda K. Schmitmeyer is a freelance writer living in Middlesex Township Her e-mail address is lks260@zoominternet.net.