Don Quixote's Journal: Point 7

My new shipmate, Gilligan, was beginning to shake some of his reticence, no longer hunkering in fear with his tail tucked when I approached. Surely his last man had given him a rough time. He seemed to be quite content serving as my figurehead, staring forward at the front of the ship while we motored along. When moored, he followed the usual hound dog playbook, sleeping in the sunshine or off hunting squirrels when the shade dropped.

Our parking spot for the afternoon and night had a great view. The front of the boat was nosed against Point 7, the only broken spot in the trees lining the bank. Finding a spot vacant of trees, limbs and floating brush is not easy when the lake is full. I had not yet come to realized the threat that plagues the exposure of tying up on points.

We were on the shore of a common camping area with the usual assortment of charred beer cans and bottles, dirty diapers and used toilet paper. This puzzles me to no end, why anyone would leave so much trash behind. Even if these scoundrels never expect to come again it would seem like they could leave a better experience for the next fellow. If everyone follows the same practice the area will be unusable in one camping season.

(Note to campers -- cans and bottle will not burn. Expect to carry your trash out with you. Empty vessels take up no more room leaving than they did coming and they weigh less. If you are going to burn something then burn your toilet paper and the diapers.)

A swim makes a good substitute for a shower. Lounging in the sunshine after the swim beats a towel.

Coffee in the afternoon works well for some people.

Even Gilligan was beginning to relax and enjoy his new berth. He accepted ear scratching and never refused food of any kind. I had to admire his laid back approach to boating. I did not know that in short time he would no longer be a crewmate, becoming a mystery not solved.