There were boats, there were sailors (see above) and there were hashers. YOU know it if you were there, and if you weren't, you don't give a crap, so I'm not naming names. Fortunately, there was also sun, and even lotsa wind (not you, Phart! although with all those yucky men hashers, I'm sure farts happened. Nous les femmes don't do such disgusting things. So call me biased.) In typical female fashion ET locked the keys in her car, forcing Mr. Canadian Tire to hold up his boat for an hour. Mr. CAA used his enchanting tool for one sec! and it worked. I got no pleasure out of it. Despite the forceful wind and masterful sailing of Phart, we didn't catch up to the gang, so they already had lunch, except Mucky Dip, who put it on her shoes. Well, time to put the tents up for those so unlucky to have to rough it in the meadow, they not being invited to while the night away in womb-like water movements. Once again, despite the help of a nuclear scientist and a chemical engineer, it took Phart over an hour to set up his (neighbour's) tent, but at least half an hour faster than last year. Birdie presiding, it was time for the Hash - whaddoyou mean - running?? Yes! Off we went, Phart with his horn and Scubic Hair with his skull on a stick (recently being misappropriated from the Montreal Hash via Ottawa and TOR). Having been there before, and this not being a very large place, plus the heat, these hashers did not put in a very good effort, I must say. Maybe they were dewy eyed from the various wedding parties on location, including a biker wedding popping pictures (amongst others) along the lake. Some hanger-on-ers pretending to run just walked to the beer-stop, which Furkin converted into a very classy O.J. & vodka stop (or was it champagne, I must have forgotten). Next stop was beautiful Lake Ontario, and since there were no bacterial warnings and the Army also were not shooting targets next door, at least half the group flopped into the Lake. And talking about targets! Now I never found out who won the wet T-shirt contest, although all you men more than likely sinned in your heart of hearts and decided on your favourite! (Or were there two..) Well, some more plodding, at then at last it was on to some serious drinking. Oh yes, first the obligatory down-down's but once again the chalice was missing, and the skull on a stick leaked. So they found a name for Wilhelm's Willy, and they changed Brinker (formerly No Name Basterd) to Scheisser, staying in the Germanic vein. Personally I don't like changes, good thing I'm spaced out. The cookout left something to be desired, seeing that these Fifty Peachy Sailors let their fire dwindle, necessitating hashers to stand in line without a drink in their paws, the ultimate blasphemy I am sure. We shoudda just got stuffed and skunked on all the gourmet goodies and accompanying drink laid out along the waterside. The long-distance band was good, and close up even better, at least this was the experience of the more adventurous, including the real estate lady. After sun and moon had gone to bed, so did most hashers, although some watched (or maybe even felt!) the morning glory rise. Next day showed the usual bleary eyes and unwashed bodies, it being said that hashers are not generally washers. Guess that made them gamey enough for Willie, who put on a quiz tough enough to stymie the most musically minded. Lieber Herr Gott, where did he get all those goddam details. Had he been old enough, they wouldn't have lost the war, but we had Glenn Miller. Some bloke from across the pond won the contest, but then he had the advantage of knowing the colour of John Lennon's knickers. And a Japanese rock band??? Gimme a break! Well, the weather also took a break, and seeing the storm-pregnant cumulus cloud formations, hashers hurried onto their vessels (except Rubble and his missus, who were on vacation, but who would call that a vacation with a bunch of raggedy harriers, and a hairy dog, especially the day after?) and off we sailed into the blue yonder, at least the off-course Danish Blue did, the rest headed for the green condom roof of Bronte. (Now here's a mental picture!) Thanks to the sailors for ferrying us across without anyone joining the Edward Fitzgerald, but then hi-ho and a bottle of rum, without OUR invigorating company you would have been bored out of your Montreal skull on a stick!