Return to the Isle of Rushin

No one cried, and this year I didn't get run over by the boat.

Are we getting old? I have a whole complex about getting old, ask CC. Last night we were all at a bar enjoying a table keg--just about as good as it can get, right?--but joy was overcome by unanimous bitching about loud it was in the bar and how no one could hear a bloody thing.*

This year as we voyaged to the Isle, people were responsible, careful not to replicate the crises of yore, such as putting sunblock in one's eyes or becoming over-drunk, falling into the water and being sucked under the raft. Or becoming lodged in the bottom of the raft and unable to sit up, a drowning risk if one's face gets stuck to the rubber bottom (there are about 2 inches of water in the bottom of the raft). On the bus-ride-of-terror (to river; pictured) I had a long talk with Rick about the joys of going to bed at 11 pm.

And on the voyage I thought to myself, 'maybe this would be even more fun sober.'

We sighted the Isle, declared, "Rushin, do not even think about it," and floated on by.

Hmm, I don't know, this sounds like old age to me.

(*Thanks for the beers last night, people. You know people are good friends when you offer to show them your "dissertation", pull out your laptop and display a Word file, and they get all excited and high five you.)