We wandered ocean bluffs until rain saturated old Gore-tex and watched tourist slasher flicks. No amount of beer makes that summer hedonism.
I did, however, kayak every day, skimming among lilypads. I'd lean backwards and float under the fishbowl sky. And all was good, until scurvy dogs tried to board my boat.
"Go back," I shouted, as they plowed off the dock. "Nooooooo."
Smiling, they churned out 100 feet. Then the chocolate lab began lunging and scrabbling on the stern. Avast!
I glanced onshore. Yup, their yard contains a kayak. A fat-bellied thing, quite unlike Ed's narrow-prowed beauty.
More to the point, I am not a mutt-chauffeur. Nor do I want a funny capsizing story; I prefer my humiliations self-induced, thank you. And I'm a cat person. Piss off.
Wheeling, I charged towards the dog dock. Someone emerged and whispered, "here, boys". Worthless people. No wonder these animals were stowaways. They wanted to escape to a less milquetoast world, I'm sure.
Not mine, though. Hell no.
I swiveled again, close to shore. The lab lunged. I don't think so, me-bucko. I fanned water into his face. Raiders repelled. Arghhhh!
"Edward, your lake has pirates," I shouted, hauling onshore.
"Oh," he remarked, long accustomed to my hyperbole. "Ye hurt them how?"