No Hū is an Island
Con/Jur/d, 7/10/2024
Anchored in the rock bottomed bay, no mainland in sight, our inner twitcher active, trying to identify a mohawked bird whose presence among the gulls, wood ducks, cormorants, keeps our Hu exceptionalism in check. We pretend we’re just two, two legged wingless fowl floating near loon osprey and other nameless to themselves, flocks -- although we need a boat being genus technosapiens, of the Family Hu aka featherless apes. We were settling down for a day of swimming, make believe identifications, since our phone tethers were sporadic at best when, “Hello,” I said, she turns to me “Wha…”
“Do you have a midship cleat?” asks the Canadian Border Patrol, 5 of them and a cute, gun, drug and alien sniffing dog -- “No, sir, we do not” and other small talk involving our attachments papers, sense of self, whether we should/could/would have our autonomy suspended -- a ‘good’ soldier, who is generous with small talk while his o-so-serious comrades, hold their guns and stare past our ears, never meeting our eyes -- the chatter outlines a rainstorm, torrential downpour in the morning which, due to our absence from the web (See honey what happens when I put my phone down?) is unwelcome news, so we commit to leaving right then, having confirmed our status as preapproved aliens, similar enough to native invaders to pass, we feel the need to leave despite the multiple mechanical challenges, better to slowly go without wind, than to quickly go in torrent pursued by lightning and waterspouts.
While traversing an endless bay at three knots, had plenty of time to be thankful for other Hūs, even when wearing techsapien murder gear and the reflection on the common sense aphorism “No man is an Island.”
After our last century gearbox decided to begin breaking down in a crowded, unfamiliar harbor, we rewarded ourselves with the aforementioned perfect meal at Chez Piggy and then a lunch cruise in the Canadian Thousand Islands -- very satisfying:
The ambient tour guide -- who played classic 60s - 70s rock between commentary
on what we were viewing, and mentioned in passing the definition of an Island
No man is an island he sd first, you need 10 square feet of dry surface, and most modern men meet the criteria if one accepts the 'damp as mostly dry' criteria, but there is the condition of a fully grown tree to qualify as an island, most men have never met the criteria even in debauched fantasies, so no man is an island rather they qualify as a rock, which explains just about everything we need to know about the modern mind.
Much love,
Con/Jur/d, 7/10/2024
Your nautical adventures thrill me.