My husband, the ace reporter. The boat arrived today. Note that it is not called the Mary B. It is, in fact, the Mary M. Sorry, Mary Beth. Good news, Mary Margaret!
That was the high point of the day, which was otherwise hot, sweaty and dehydrating. It took seven hours to get the boat unloaded, the motor mounted and the mast raised, after which Alan motored it into its new slip at the park and we called it a day. It was mostly memorable for these guys, which assaulted us in clouds. OK, so it’s wrong to accuse an insect that neither stings nor bites of being assaultive, but you have no idea how the millions of mayflies — called “fish flies” locally — coat this town in June. This is a light dusting. Under street lights, there are places where they cover the grass. Like snow. (You want to know more? You know you do.)
They flew around our heads, in our mouths, down our shirts. At one point, I noticed Alan was sweating so hard he had actually drowned two of them on his neck.
But our boat floats. It needs its boom and sails, its belowdecks straightened, its cooler filled with ice-cold Labatt’s blue and a bottle or two of nice white wine, perhaps champagne for its maiden voyage under sail. Now there will be some pictures.
Those mayflies? Alan informs me they come from the genus ephemera. They exist to make fish and fishermen happy, and to be beautiful. So they do.
No bloggage today. I was outside, getting solar radiation instead of the kind that leaks from my laptop.