Sometimes you just have the love the big girl. Forget for a moment the slender, fey chick – that’s Keuka. Or the pure-as-the-driven-snow virgin – that’s Skaneateles. Sometimes you just fall head-over-heels into the clear blue water that is Seneca. She’s a glorious lake, glacier-born, with depths that are just approximations. There be monsters in her, lurking, teasing. At her north shore, a walkway stretches miles, lined with willows bent by her constant wind. They toss their hair in the sun, and dance to her music. Even in sweltering July, Seneca washes over me with a deep coolness, a blessing.