The story displays the writer using their creative process to make their perception of an everyday occurrence into a larger, human experience. A story about travel, aging, and how society relates to the eldery, or any medical minority.
And we see amazing rock and cliff formations, hear legends about local heroes and villains, the women they swooned and the whiskey they drank that has a strange resemblance to the acid in the water that makes it brown, caramel coloring.
-that contains the same ingredient, an acid, that is in the brown waters we’re boating in. “Carmel coloring,” says the shapely college sophomore tour guide.
We see a Bald Eagle that is always conveniently perched in the same tree the past six time I’ve been here, something of a Santa myth for the kiddies perhaps. Maybe ‘tis a real Eagle. Jet skiers sport around, doing figure eights perhaps in some subconscious effort to create enough waves to capsize the big boat but to no avail. The North woods husband may have never seen a Jet Ski, is rather amazed at the brave pilots who dare to ride them, he keeps wanting to point at the speeding target with his finger but realizes that no one else shares in his marveling, he quickly pulls his arm back and clamps his lips shut.
The Northwoods husband may have never seen a JetSki, he’s rather amazed at the brave pilots who dare to ride them, he wants to point at the speeding crafts with his finger and speak but retracts his arm and shuts his lips at the last moment when he realizes that no one else shares in his marveling.
The tour guide, who we learn studies to be an Ear Doc, gives history, anthropology, and geography lessons, and she sings songs in a wonderful voice, she must hear well, I think, likely make a good Ear Doc.. She hands out some postcards but, despite the scenery and the singing, some passengers have a hard time keeping their eyes off of her legs and the blue shorts that emphasize her wonderful posture.
The boat heads back to port, the two couples shake hands and say goodbye. I reach the wide platform at the top of the long ramp but am compelled to stop. I turn to see if I’ve left anything behind. Nothing left behind but a final sight of the daughter pushing her mother up the long ramp, sweat beading across her forehead by the time she reaches the top, the last people to exit, the mother’s eyes upward, a smile like her face knows no other expression.
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