The idea had spawned from a drunken discussion held a few weeks prior, at Wally's, one of Maillardville’s finest watering holes. It’s a fairly large place conveniently located just a few blocks up the street from the Hell’s Angels club house. There, old folk usually hang out in the late afternoon and evening, since the food is quite good, and the younger crowd shows up later for a little drug use and dancing. The three of us were part of the early wave that evening and initially we felt like we were showing our age but after a few beers and some appies all felt good. The three of us had worked together for a number of years and had had gotten quite close. We would get together quite frequently, with or without our significant others, but over time, people had moved on. Walker had gotten a new job across town and shortly thereafter Helmut had quit and started his own business. The mini reunion had been about a year since the last one so the mood was jovial and the conversation boisterous.
Walker was building a wine cellar in his basement to store his sophisticated oenological creations, those that he made by sprinkling a little yeast in a pail at the local U-brew place where the staff did the rest. Walker, being the workaholic that he was, always had some kind of project in process. The year before, he had built a goldfish pond with an electric fenced around it to keep the raccoons out. Not a good combination, especially since the wiring job was not quite up to code. Without getting into details, that project had resulted in two second degree burns and six fancy Koi floating supine among the lily pads. The pond has since evolved into a tulip garden. Helmut told us about his trip to Ze Fazerlannd to visit with some of his extended family, in his best contrived Bavarian accent. He had moved to Canada as a child and spoke a little German but his culture was in his genes and they floated to the surface whenever enough bier was consumed. I went on a bit about feeling a little dead-ended in my job and not having had any kind of a real break for a long while. This wasn’t of any great importance really, but I could tell that it had Walker reflecting a little. His brow began to furrow, his lips pursed between glugs of beer and I knew then that an idea was being launched.
So here I stood, waiting in my driveway, on a drizzly Saturday morning wearing a red Floater jacket, of late seventies vintage, standing next to a pair of rubber boots, a duffle bag of food and gear and two six packs of Canadian. I was actually motivated for this trip, not by the prospect of spending two days in a cramped little boat bobbing up and down on a frigid lake with two hung over guys, but rather that this little trip coincided with a planned visit from my sister in law. She is quite a special little woman with an enormous ego with a constant need to point out why she is superior to all other living things on this earth. As I was fantasizing about snapping her little pencil-neck with a crescent wrench, Walker rolled up the driveway in his fully loaded F150 and squished one of my six packs of beer. The cans popped like six big zits under his left front, all-terrain, tire and the foam flooded my shoes. I whipped them off and just stepped right into the rubber boots since my socks didn’t feel wet. I pitched the shoes further up the driveway and one bounced onto the hood of the wifelet’s car.
I threw my stuff in the back and climbed into the passenger seat. Helmut was in the back, plugged into his MP3. He acknowledged my presence with a little nod and Walker belted, “Let’s go” and with that we were on our way to the tranquility of the great outdoors with the fresh sounds and smells of nature, to bond with each other and to partake of the manly art of fishing. But first, Walker needed to make a quick stop at London Drugs to get a Logiix dual USB iPod charger. I didn’t have any idea what that was but I assumed that must have been something he needed for some undisclosed medical condition. I didn’t dare ask.
We were about ten minutes into our trip when I realized that I had already made three very serious errors. The first was that when I thought that my socks weren’t wet from wading through 2.13 liters beer, I must have been suffering from some kind of post traumatic stress disorder after having seen half of my liquor supply being lost. My socks were, in fact, soaked, but the good news was that not the whole six-pack was lost. I had at least the equivalent of half a can sloshing around in each boot. The second was that I didn’t bring any other footwear or socks. The third mistake … well we’ll leave that until later … you’ll see.
A 2009 F150 with the club cab and the 4 wheel drive option has a maximum height of 7 feet 2 inches. For those of you that are shocked by seeing the use of Imperial Measures, that’s 218.4 centimeters. The covered parking lot at Lougheed Mall has a minimum clearance of 22 feet 6 inches but with a hanging scaffold attached for painting it is only 11 feet 2 inches. A2009 F150 with a custom roof rack has maximum height of 7 feet 8 inches. A 2009 F150 with a custom roof rack and a sixteen foot aluminum boat on top has a maximum height of 11 feet 5 inches. It’s really amazing how three lousy inches can create so much noise and disruption and how the general public is so attracted to noise and disruption.
Within two minutes a crowd had formed and people were not only snickering at our predicament but openly guffawing. Up until now I hadn’t noticed how Walker was dressed. He had on a fishing vest over a camouflage jacket and was wearing a fishing hat with lures hanging from it. It was kind of like Chuck Norris meets Col. Henry Blake. Helmut was wearing a jogging suit with a fishing hat and bright yellow headphones attached to his MP3. I was a knotted hanky away from being a full blown Gumby. One of a number of youths in the crowd yelled out, “Hey it’s Mr. James. I teach mathematics at the local high school. Monday was going to be a very difficult day.
It didn’t take long for word of the calamity to get to the Community Police Station in the mall and shortly thereafter, a very mature looking female RCMP Corporal appeared and approached Walker.
“Are you going fishing?” , she asked politely. The crowd snickers.
“Yes we are,” replied Walker defiantly.”We’re heading up to Mosquito Lake. I don’t know how this could have happened. I could have sworn I had enough clearance.”
“Well it doesn’t look too serious, you can probably loosen your roof rack enough to slide the boat out. Make sure the boat doesn’t leak!” … make sure the boat doesn’t leak! … make sure …………..
The Corporal had a quick look at Walker’s driver’s license then looked right at him and said, “I smell alcohol. Have you been drinking?”
Without missing a beat, Walker replied,” No, but his (pointing at me) boots are full of beer.”
Cpl. Anne Williams had been with the RCMP for 27 years. She had asked that question hundreds and hundreds of times during the course of police work in Traffic and General Duty but she had never heard that answer. But more importantly, she knew it was true. She knew that my boots were full of beer she didn’t need to come over and check. Three middle aged guys dressed like characters in a Monty Python skit jam their vehicle and boat under a scaffold in an underground parking lot on the way to a fishing lake and the guy dressed as Gumby has beer in his boots. Yes, it all fits.
Then my cell phone rings, or rather, runs through the “Cucaracha” theme three times before it cuts out. It was in the inside pocket of the Floater but slid through a hole and ended up in the lining. The caller is persistent and calls back 3 more times which means 9X Cucaracha until I can finally get it out. The crowd had started to disperse until this latest development. I check the call display and, of course, it’s the wifelet. I hit Reply and she picks up. My end went like this: “… the beer got squished and soaked them … Lougheed Mall … Walker had to get something … it got stuck in the lining … the boat’s jammed in a covered parking lot … stop laughing … don’t tell your mother. Her end involved a number of very colorful expletives which I’m sure she didn’t mean.
I had a look at the way the roof rack was attached and figured that it wouldn’t be that difficult to loosen it off so that we could unjam the boat. Walker had a big tool box in the back with everything needed to do the job so we sent him off to get his electronic gizmo and two pairs of socks for me, in order to save time. We got the boat off and had a good look at it. The bow was a little crushed but there were no holes or cracks in the aluminum. By the time Walker got back, we had moved the truck out and were in the process of loading the boat back on. I took off the boots and shook out as much beer as I could, then we finally got back on the road.
Once we were on the highway, I stuck my feet out the window to dry them off. This worked quite well until we drove through a swarm of bugs that hit my soles like machine gun fire. In the panic to haul my feet in, I hit the window control switch and almost cut my legs of just below the knees. I dried the boots in the same way, holding them out the window with the open end out, but at 110 kph they were a little hard to hang on to. Walker only had to stop twice so we could retrieve a boot. The first time was fairly easy since it ended up on the right hand shoulder. The second time the boot took a bad bounce and came to rest in the middle of the highway after hitting three or four vehicles. Getting it back was a little challenging since traffic was fairly heavy but Helmut demonstrated his sprinting skills very well and was able to recover the battered boot.
In spite of our unexpected delay we still made it to Hope by lunch time. Walker pulled into the Chevron and eased up to the pump. Helmut offered that we chip in for gas and I agreed. Walker looked at us with a wry smile. “Are you sure?” he asked.
“Yes, of course,” we echoed in harmony.
I drive a compact car that I chose because of its fuel efficiency and Helmut doesn’t even own a vehicle. He’s one of these guys that you see pedaling like stink in the rain with enough fluorescent clothing to blind anyone that looks directly at him. So, between the two of us, we had absolutely no idea how much gas that a behemoth like this would need. When the final amount came up after about ten minutes of fueling, I think we both questioned our generosity. Mental note: Never buy any vehicle where the gas tank is bigger than a Yaletown apartment. Walker pulled the truck across the parking lot and we shuffled over to the diner to get some lunch. The place was small, clean and the aroma of food was delightful. We had a decent little meal and were only asked by two people if we were going fishing. Hans suggested that he take off his fishing hat before we encountered other members of the public in order to make the ‘Where are we going? Mystery’ a little more challenging.
Back on the road and I began to settle into a very relaxing groove and for the first time in a fairly long while I was being overcome by an overwhelming sense of tranquility. My feet were dry and warm in their new socks, the smell of beer had almost all gone and my belly was full of the excellent chili I had earlier. I must say that if you disregard all the dumb-ass things about big vehicles, like blocking the visibility of others, the high carbon foot prints and just looking stupid, they are really, really comfortable, like being in your living room, except that the flat screen over the rear view is only 24 inches across. The vehicle swayed gently from side to side as we started up the Fraser Canyon and I faded into a blissful little nap.
Harold Walker is not an aggressive man but he is very assertive. No one pushes him around, under no circumstances and for no reason at all. He developed this quality over the many years that he’s spent as a high school principal. Over that time he came to develop quite a reputation at being very tough in difficult circumstances. We had worked together at Moody for a number of years until he was enticed to move to another school that had serious challenges very suited to his skill set. An aggressive trucker is no match to a 16 year old high school delinquent and Walker dealt with those every day. The Kenworth had passed us going around a corner, uphill, cutting us off as it pulled back into our lane. Walker had decided that this was highly inappropriate and immediately passed the truck to show the driver who was boss. This is when I woke up. The double yellow line was on my right. The cab of the Kenworth was there too and I was at eye level with the logo in the driver’s door. We were going downhill and the North Arm of the Fraser River was straight ahead. In the oncoming lane were two headlights attached to a blue SUV whose driver was probably saying, “WHAT THE F……?”. Just to my left was the F150’s digital speedo which showed 135kph. Helmut was completely oblivious to this as he bobbed his head to the music pumping through his giant headphones. I screamed! Walker pulled back into the right lane clearing the bumper of the semi by a good three to four inches. I screamed again! The truck driver wailed on his horn and I screamed louder than the air horn. Walker glanced over at me as is he had no idea why I was so upset. He then slowed down a little and the truck behind us backed off. I asked Walker to pull over for a washroom break at the next available opportunity. It may have been too late but I was too frazzled to tell.
Boston Bar came up around the next bend and the speed limit plummeted from 110 to 50 in the space of two hundred feet. A police car was tucked in around the curve just in case anyone had difficulty with this abrupt transition. Walker did and pulled into the gravel lot in front of the local coffee shop doing about 80. The cop hit the gas, spilled his coffee, hit the brakes and got out of his car wiping the hot liquid off his pants. We went into what was called the Fraser River Café and I headed straight for the can. I was relieved to see that my bladder was full and that I had been able to maintain control of all my bodily functions. The other two were sitting at a table by the window with their beverages. I went up to the counter, grabbed a coffee and was fascinated by these meaty things on sticks turning on some heated rollers. I wasn’t sure but I think they were corn dogs. For some inexplicable reason I wanted one. I wasn’t hungry, lunch had only been an hour ago, but still there was strange attraction to those ill-cooked outdated midway snacks.
At this point, there is a piece of advice that I would like to share. If ever, and God forbid, you are kidnapped and held captive in a dark room, deprived of food for two weeks and if, by some unexpected and fortuitous set of circumstances you escape and end up in Boston Bar, outside the Fraser River Café with $1.92 in your pocket – I know this is a stretch, but you never know … - do not eat a corn dog!
As well as being assertive, Harold Walker is meticulously neat and tidy. He washes his F150 every week and vacuums and shines the inside every other day. Therefore, when the sudden wave of discomfort hit me I panicked for a solution. I thought of the window first but realized that at this speed and given the length of the vehicle that the odds were very slim of complete clearance, stopping was out of the question since I had three to four hundred nanoseconds at most and the ash tray was too small. Panic rose even more at the realization that disaster would be real and immediate, but through sheer strength of focus, I realized the boots were the answer … but in my haste, I took off the wrong one. As I lifted it towards my mouth the residual scents of sweat and beer catalyzed the finest upchuck I have ever had since downing two bottles of Baby Duck at my high school graduation. I was quick to realize that this was the battered boot which had sustained some damage while bouncing down the highway. I held my hand over the two cracks at the back of the heel. For the first time ever, I saw panic and distress in Walker’s face. He slammed on the binders and we came to a screeching, dust-blowing halt on the partially graveled shoulder.
The cop from before had been following us after his own mishap, in hopes of redeeming himself. What he saw was a truck doing an emergency stop and a guy wearing a Floater jacket jumping out, in a cloud of dust, holding one of his boots. He flipped on his lights to add to the drama. Now this particular guy had worked in Boston Bar for over five years and all he had ever seen were traffic offences and the odd gas station robbery. Now here, for the first time in his career, a situation presented itself, though he doubted that any crime had been committed, that was puzzling and requiring of his deductive reasoning. He took his time, starting by running the plate and getting the vehicle owner’s name and particulars. There was nothing much on that other than a couple of minor traffic things. He pondered more but couldn’t come up with any explanation for what he had just seen.
Walker started to grow impatient and climbed out of the cab. The cop lowered his window and asked, “Hi there, you boys going fishing?”
“No,” Walker replied,” He’s (pointing at me) smuggling heroin in one of his boots.” I then turned blue.
The cop got out of his car and started walking towards me. He looked at me then at my boot, which now was dripping significantly, then back at me, then at Walker. And then he stopped. The corners of his mouth started to rise slowly as he turned and walked back to his vehicle grinning. “You ate one of the corn dogs, didn’t you? And don’t leave that boot on the side of the road!”
Once again, Helmut Kohler headed up the boot rescue operation. He went to the box cover on the back of the truck and looked to see if Walker had any garbage bags stashed. Not surprisingly, he did, but not just the usual big green ones, he had little white ones and great big orange ones as well. Regrettably, he had only one size of twist tie. The boot and contents were secured inside three knotted and twist-tied garbage bags and firmly secured to the roof rack underneath the stern of the boat. I didn’t think I would make it comfortably through the weekend with only one boot so we pulled off the highway at Lytton to look for some footwear. I didn’t think there would be much selection but, at this point, it didn’t matter, boots, sneakers, flippers , whatever! It wasn’t long before I was once again properly shod and no longer feeling the effects of my diaphragm in my throat. Having survived so many calamities so far this day and happening to be just outside the door of the Lytton Hotel, Walker declared that we should go and have a beer, just one. I normally don’t drink beer after I puke into one of my boots, but today was an exception after all, we were on a fishing vacation.
The inside of the licensed premises of the Lytton Hotel was small, dark and smelled like the inside of the boot that was lashed onto the outside of the truck but the experiences of the day were such that we were not as sensitif as usual. We sat at one of the little tables and realized quickly that service was not part of the business plan of this little establishment. I went to the bar to get the beer and Helmut went over to the pull tab machine to buy a fistful of losing tickets. The beer tasted good and it didn’t take long before the three of us were laughing like crazy at all the stupid things that had gone on that day and the irony of how we were looking for a peacefully serene relaxation experience. The beer tasted so good, in fact, that we left in haste get up to the lake as quickly as possible so that we could indulge in few more. It was only about 45 minutes away. The others headed out to the truck and I went up to the bar to get a six pack to go, to replace the one that was used as a speed bump back home. A local, middle aged lady, well past her prime, smiled at me from her table. I smiled back unconvincingly and then turned to get the attention of the bartender. Then I felt a hand on my butt, guess who? She had had more than just one beer and I was too shocked to do anything. She then whispered, or at least she thought she was whispering, into my ear that she could show me a really good time for fifty dollars. I declined but I was so flattered by the realization that I was still attractive enough to be able to pay for sex that I bought the woman a drink and left quickly with my six pack.
I got back to the truck and told the other guys about my little experience. “Hell, let’s go back,” Walker bellowed trying to make a joke but sadly I think he actually meant it. Helmut showed no interest at all. We got to Mosquito Lake in about forty minutes and were parked by our cabin five minutes after that. It was only 3:15 so there was still time to get a few lines wet if we wanted. The other guys were up for it but I didn’t feel that I needed any new challenges this particular day. I would unpack and start to put something together for dinner.
The cabin consisted of one large open room with an airtight stove in the middle. Along one wall was a small kitchenette made up of a straight piece of counter with a two-burner gas stove at one end and a small fridge at the other. The compressor on the fridge was in palliative care mode and clunked loudly when it started or stopped. Right in the middle of the little counter was a porcelain bathroom sink with separate faucets for hot and cold. Against the opposite wall was a bunk bed on one side and a double on the other. There was only one window overlooking the lake on the South side and below it was a small table with four chairs. Just below the window on the outside was a partially constructed deck. There was no couch, no tv and no washroom facilities. There was a shower in the larger lodge building but the toilets were al fresco. The place smelled a little of ‘fireplace and grease’ but overall was reasonably clean.
Helmut and Walker had put the boat in the water and were manhandling the oversized outboard to get it on the transom. Apparently this caused more distress than anticipated since Helmut was yelling at Walker in his phony German doing a fairly good rendition of Colonel Klink, something about ‘my foot’ and Dummkopf (whatever that is). Then silence, which was broken by a few sputters of an engine kicking into action. I peered out the window and could now see the boat on its way with its two gladiators heading out with thousands of dollars of sophisticated equipment to do battle with the twelve inch trout that inhabit Mosquito Lake.
I cracked a beer and focused my energies on dinner. We were only here for the one night so today’s dinner would be the big meal of the trip. We had brought some New York Steaks, potatoes and salad for tonight, very simple and hopefully very good. I started by getting the airtight going since it was really starting to cool off. There was a nice pile of dry Birch under cover next to the cabin along with a little dull hatchet. I bludgeoned away at the larger pieces until I had a nice collection of kindling, split logs, woodchips and crushed bits of branches, not very pretty but very flammable. There was a little stack of newspaper by the wood as well, so getting the stove started was very simple. I checked to see whether the flue was open, made a little pile of starting materials and lit them up. A few minutes later when the flame had picked up, I stoked it with a sizeable load of wood. Within minutes the fire was roaring. First there was a little black smoke creeping out, then a little bit more.
I was briefly distracted by a drastic change of pitch of the outboard on the lake. It had gone from a little trolling putt, putt sound to a screaming high pitched squeal that sounded like a Formula One car. I swung around and the aluminum boat with my eminent friends and colleagues was motoring at high speed with the bow sticking 45 degrees out of the water. What was more surprising was that these two university educated guys were both sitting at the very back of the boat with the engine cranked on full blast. Obviously the steering and visibility were compromised because the boat bounced off the side of the dock, skidded up the little beach and came to rest, with the engine still screaming, with is bow jammed under the deck of the cabin. When the spinning propeller hit the sand … well, let’s just say the visual was unparalleled by any physical phenomenon I had ever seen before.
While I was seriously wondering whether the intrepid fishermen were complete utter imbeciles they were wondering that of me as well, since by now the black smoke emanating from the airtight had increased ten-fold and was billowing out the front door. That was about when the owner of the resort pulled up on his ATV to find out … to use his words, ”What in God’s name of Hell in Christ the Fuck is going on here?????”
Well it was quite simple really. I had checked whether the flue was open and it was. I hadn’t checked whether it was BROKEN, which it was. When it heated up it slammed shut on itself … oops. The boat thing well yes we checked for leaks … checked for leaks … checked for leaks… but we didn’t have a Plasma Magnetic Interferometer in our ass pocket to check for fucking metal fatigue, resulting from the incident at Lougheed Mall. The bow split after it came under strain after bouncing along the water. The only way to keep the boat from becoming Das Boot was to keep the fucking bow out of the water ie weight in the back and engine on full!!!
Everyone was quiet at dinner. Helmut was nursing the foot that Walker had crushed when tried to lift the outboard onto the boat but he was a smart guy and couldn’t stay mad at Walker. He had been the only shop teacher at Moody that still had all his fingers, so from that standpoint he was almost considered a genius. The steaks were actually pretty good but the potatoes were overcooked. It didn’t matter because the beers kept coming in order to help us cope with this unfortunate change in plans. No more fishing. The boat was probably fixable but certainly couldn’t be used any more on this trip, but more importantly, we had been kicked out of our cabin under threats of bodily injury and found ourselves in the pub in the nearest hotel we could find, 100 Mile House.
After dinner, we listened to Prairie Breeze, a country music ensemble consisting of a very bad singer and a keyboard player of equally questionable caliber. We had no other place to go. We were only able to get one room which was cramped and hardly the place to spend an evening and the only other place in town that was open was Save On Foods. The only solutions appeared to be to murder the band or to drink very heavily. We discussed this for a bit but agreed that we couldn’t come up with a good way of disposing of the bodies so we kept the beers coming and coming instead.
The next morning, I was the first to wake up because my alcohol level got down low enough that I could hear Walker snoring. He was sleeping on his back with all his clothes on in the big bed on the side of the room. Helmut and I each had little creaky metal cots that were probably World War One surplus. I hit the shower and then went downstairs for coffee. Helmut stumbled down after about ten minutes and it was clear that he hadn’t showered. He did make an attempt to comb his hair but half of the hairs on his head had resisted. His hair was flat on the right side and sticking straight up on the left. From where I was sitting, it looked like he was standing in a ninety kilometer per hour gale. I’m sure he knew but didn’t care. Walker got down just after my breakfast arrived and greeted us with gleaming white teeth and blood shot eyes. He had showered and changed but he still wore his silly fishing hat.
So what was the plan? The drive home was about five hours. We had planned to fish all day today and to drive home in the evening. If we left now it would be obvious that our trip had been a failure and after all the negotiations that it took to go, for all three us, it would probably compromise the chances of any other road trips in the future. The truth of the matter was that since we were here we should try to see if we could get the boat fixed and do some fishing. We went outside to inspect the damage. The aluminum boat was on the truck so Helmut, since he was the shop guy of the group, grabbed a metal garbage can that was nearby, to stand on so he could go up and have a look. He did this with great caution to make sure that he wouldn’t collapse into the can. He climbed on. So far, so good. He had a good close look at the crack in the boat, and told us that it was actually quite encouraging. There was about a twelve inch crack down the middle of the bow but the various cross members and the gunwales held things together so that the crack didn’t expand when he put pressure on it. Walker actually suggested duct tape but then realized quickly from the glare he got from Helmet and me that maybe there was a better solution. We all piled in the truck and headed for the little hardware store on the main street. They surely would have Bondo or fiberglass putty or epoxy patching kits. They did. But this was Sunday … small town. Save On Foods was the only place open.
We walked through all the aisles at Save On and our choices were Krazy Glue, silicone sealant, masking tape and Play Dough. We went with three tubes of the silicone sealant. That might actually work. At the check-out we were asked if we were going fishing and whether we needed any help out. Helmut replied in ‘german’, with something that, loosely translated, meant “No you unfortunate cow!”. Then we were back in the truck consulting some maps. It would be silly to backtrack to Mosquito Lake so we decided on Sable Lake which was only about twenty minutes up the road.
Well, you know, sometimes a little confidence, persistence and resolve works. Within an hour we were in the newly patched boat blissfully fishing for trout. We were able to patch the crack with a piece of nylon tarp and the silicone. We were a little short on the silicone so a small portion of the crack, well above the waterline was still open but, other than that, it held beautifully. We tested and retested before the repair before all three of us got in, kept the speed down and only motored close to shore. It all worked and it was delightful. The fishing itself was not all that successful, Walker and Helmut each pulled in a small trout but the overall experience itself was a total success.
I was disappointed to be going home with nothing, given all the challenges that we had to endure so I convinced the other guys to bring me back to Save On where I could do a little indoor fishing. I looked all over but most of the fish products were cut up in pieces, frozen and in boxes. I think I would have a hard time going home with a piece of frozen haddock and telling the wifelet that it was part of a big trout I had frozen at the lake. But as I kept looking, I found a small anemic Atlantic salmon that would serve the purpose. It wasn’t a trout but I don’t think she could tell, after all trout and salmon belonged to the same family. I pitched the wrapping and bagged it like all the other fish. Done. Time to go home.
As we were approaching Clinton an annoying whine was coming from the front of the boat. We got out and had a look. Nothing had really changed. What was happening was that the small unsealed portion of the crack was acting as a whistle and the body of the boat was acting as a sound box. We went on a little further and stopped in Clinton to find something to remedy the situation. Again, small town on a Sunday evening … all that was open was a small convenience store. There was nothing there to do any repairs with but they did have ear plugs. That would be enough to get us home.
The earplugs were of surprising good quality. They were incredibly comfortable and as we drove we could no longer here the whine from the boat. When a little silicone peeled away from the crack and let air flow across of the tarp patch making a sound like a very loud bassoon we didn’t hear that. And when we drove through Boston Bar with a cop with full sirens on behind us, we didn’t hear that either. We did see the roadblock that was set up 10 km ahead though. Yes, the Constable who came up to the vehicle was the same one. When he recognized us he shook his head and just signaled to the others to take down the barrier and we were off again.
We eventually made it home and when I hit the sack and put my arm around the wifelet. All she had to say was, “Why did you put a boot full of puke in the fridge?”
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