With German efficiency, we tore through a half gallon of Canadian Club, chased it with a case of Pabst Blue Ribbon and set out on the boat. Floating around the lake for a few hours, we laughed and enjoyed the hell out of our pubescentless air. When it was time to go back (and after a dozen false starts), the engine turned over and brought us back to shore. There, my wife and our other friends leapt gracefully from the boat and walked up the bank. I, however, gripped the handrail and attempted to slide off the bow like a manatee. I am still unclear exactly how this happened, but I found myself hanging from the side of the boat; my American butt cheeks dangling mere inches from the surface of the water.
“Help me! Help me! Help me!” I cried, but my pleas were rewarded only with laughter. Raucous laughter, especially from my wife. My arms grew tired and I knew I was going into the drink. “My iPhone! You asses, where’s my iPhone?”
“I have it,” chimed The Wife, just helpful as can be.
*SPLASH* I dropped into the water, feeling it wash into my shoes, under my coat and through my jeans; swirling like an icy maelstrom around my wedding vegetables. I emerged from the water soaked and shivering, and though I was prepared to greet hypothermia with open arms, The Wife marched me directly into our tent and put me into dry clothes as if I were some kind of big, stupid man-baby.
Click here to read The Camping Chronicles: Timothy Lake, Part III
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