simply a casual, minimalistic note regarding derelict runabouts
After the steep, always delightfully roguish descent down sandy bluff (far easier than usual due to overnight showers which stabilitized the ordinarily terrible footing) through colorful maples and green nettles, Oliver Fern and I spent several hours wandering the beach at relatively low tide. After inspecting untold numbers of tiny crabs and undertaking a handful of meandering detours around ghastly, slippery clay leaching and oozing out of the forest above into the shallows of Elliott Bay, we eventually happened upon a derelict runabout, a garish-orange Whitehouse full of putrid seawater and gravel and we pried the dangling, corroded nameplate off with a mussel shell, loving found objects much as we do (Oliver Fern insisted we tow the boat home, cleverly appealing to my sensibilities with a most intriguing proposal involving containerized Saguaro cacti in the backyard). The boys and I’ve discovered lots of broken-up old boats on the Whulge, over the years. They’re terrific finds for children and their shutterbug fathers, akin to strolling along forest paths which mysteriously lead to meadowy clearings underneath abandoned treehouses with thick rope ladders hanging down. Obviously, if a treehouse appears suspiciously well-constructed of cookies, gingerbread and the like, you turn and run the other way unless your dad insists it looks safe (even tests the rope himself).