It's been a taxing few weeks.  Busy season at my regular job  peaked and the daily grind between the molars of hostile natives expended most of my emotional capital--which was already overdrawn thanks to the receding tide of sunshine, and the sudden slide into night, precipitated by the end of Daylight Savings Time.
     
     Which is to say that I've had a hard time deciding on a subject for this month's blog.  The natural tendency would be to go with a thanksgiving theme, but I don’t want to be trite. There is so much that I am grateful for, and my list is probably a lot like yours. So, I’ll just I’ll mention a few things about writing that I am thankful for.
     
​     Mark Twain is alleged to have said that the the secret of getting ahead is getting started; and that to succeed in life you need two things: ignorance and confidence; he also mentioned that Teddy Roosevelt was bat-whack crazy.

     I am thankful that I'm back in the saddle, writing again. At last, I have found some momentum and gotten started on Storms of Tarshish, the sequel to Uncle Arctica. I have about 10,000 words on paper. I am thankful that I was ignorant of what a long-haul-proposition getting a writing career started would be. That bliss has left me with the confidence that I, like Teddy Roosevelt, will succeed in spite of my mental derangements.

     I am thankful for the joys of the creative process.  Especially for those characters who come out of the blue and surprise me. There is a certain one in Uncle Arctica whom I had not foreseen and who, after she appeared, drove the rest of the story--with almost four hundred pages to go! I would have been lost without her. And already, in Storms of Tarshish, I have a passel of new characters filling in the gaps, and one who is really jacking up Blake and Mia's Caribbean vacation--and we're just getting the story started!

     It makes me glad to have finally gathered enough information on their current setting that I can go there in my head.  The weather in Indy isn’t getting me down right now because in my mind I’m on Isla de Vieques, getting into trouble with my characters. While many of the big scenes in Uncle Arctica were written in the first year and had to wait for me to catch up to them over the next five. Storms of Tarshish is all mapped out in synoptic form. I have only to put meat on its skeleton - and that's the delicious part!

     I'm thankful for the first assignment given in my TV-351 video editing class, all those years ago. Tom Walter's project blew us away and from it I learned to keep upping the stakes, looping the loops, pulling out all of the stops, then installing more stops and pulling them out, too. That’s what got me to the end of Uncle Arctica, and will leave you breathless at the end of Storms of Tarshish.  How on earth will I write Snowmen of the Serengeti?

     I'm also thankful for all of you who have enjoyed Uncle Arctica and  my blogs, and have encouraged, if not demanded that I keep writing.  I pegged close to 900 RSS feeds on my blogs in November and I am deeply gratified--and humbled--that so many of you have appreciated my musings.

     I am glad to offer you Uncle Arctica.  It was a blast to write it, and it’s even more fun to read.  Give it a try. You’ll be thankful you did.

On Thursday evenings, Ana comes to visit.  She, my wife Karen, and I sit close in one corner of the living room, drinking hot peppermint tea and playing cards while I recount humorous tales of my well-misspent youth.  It's all very cozy and we have a good laugh, which is good medicine. Last week I told my wallaby tales.

One of the great blessings of my youth was that I grew up hanging out in what amounted to a private zoo. It was my best friend Dan's private zoo; well, his dad’s, actually. Dan's family counted me as one of their own, and affirmed their affection by christening me: "That Damn Andrew."

Dan's father, Norm, was a breeder of exotic ducks.  The main aviary he'd constructed enclosed a quarter of an acre, and under this chicken-wire dome dwelt ducks of every description, along with impeyan pheasants and guinea fowl in a paradise of tall pampas grass, pear trees, and small, green ponds. Other pens housed fancy pigeons, chickens, a pair of noisy otters, a pair of arctic foxes, a tegu, and a badger.  House pets included the occasional ferret, a groundhog, a cat named Spaz, and a mynah bird who could whistle the theme to Hogan's Heroes. But the coolest critters of this suburban menagerie had to be the wallabies! I'll never forget bottle-feeding a joey, all leggy and hairless, cradling him in a heating pad between my knees.

Like any other habit, the wallaby binge starts out with just one or two.  And then the next thing you know, you've got a mob of fifteen miniature kangaroos free-ranging in your backyard -- foraging, boxing, lounging with an expansive yawn beneath a shady tree, or stretched out on the cool, concrete patio indulging in a luxuriant belly-scratch; always keeping a wary eye out for Mike – the undisputed godfather of the mob, and punisher of escaped chickens.

He stood a good thirty-six inches tall, and when there were no more carrot chips left on the patio, he would lope up to the sliding screen door and rattle it mercilessly.  Should a chicken escape its enclosure, Mike--following the example of his owner--would run it down, pin it with one arm, yank out a few handfuls of feathers, and then release it. Take that fowl beast! 

Mike and his harem also enjoyed their own version of wallaby drive-in theater. One night, another of our friends had laid himself out on the floor in front of the TV, his back to the sliding glass doors.  I had just stepped in from the garage, a cold Coke in hand, when a mischievous smile spread across my face.  "Pssst!" I whispered, motioning to my friend to look behind him.  He twisted his body and strained to see over his shoulder.  Eight glassy orbs in fuzzy, alien faces stared back.  He yelped and leapt to his feet, barely retaining control of certain body functions.  I probably should have chipped in for at least one therapy session.

Occasionally, a neighbor would call to say "Norman, there's somethin' big in my garden. Is it yours?"  Rounding up a stray wallaby was no small undertaking. The large gate had to be opened, and guarded.  Traffic on 16th St. had to be stopped, and a small group of wranglers had to shoo the wayward marsupial back in the general direction of said gate.

Catching a wallaby was a different matter altogether; especially the time that one inadvertently spent the night in the back garage. The next morning it was discovered that she had eaten a package of d-Con mouse poison.  It was imperative that vitamin K, an anti-coagulant, be administered as quickly as possible.  The usual suspects were assembled--Dan, his dad, myself, Dan's big brother and a couple of his friends (collectively known as "the Mooses.")  There was a large island of sundry stuff in the middle of the garage, with a path encircling its perimeter.  Norm directed us to station ourselves around this aisle with our feet wide apart. Then he shut the big garage door and it dawned on me:  we were eight guys shut in a tight space with a frightened creature which was - no kidding- capable of ripping our guts out in the blink of an eye. 

Norm chivied her out of her hiding place, and off she went, bounding at top speed around the track, each of us making a wild grab at her tail as she sprinted between our knees.  On the third lap, I got the timing right, seized the varmint and hauled her up, straining to hold her at arm’s length lest I be disemboweled.  The wallaby, however, was surprisingly calm--until Norm took her. Then she went gonzo fuzzy buzz-saw! She was hurried to a holding pen, and given the needed Vitamin K. She made a full recovery, and I lived to tell the tale.

I have a treasury of stories from the good old daze at Dan's place--my home away from home.  There are many which, though the statute of limitations has long expired, I cannot relate publicly - even if the names be changed to protect the guilty.  These gems of memory may only be revealed in close company, over a steaming cup of peppermint tea.
 
 
 
 

Daze of Adventure
Romantic: Reflecting the emotional or imaginative charm of what is heroic, adventurous, remote, mysterious, or idealized--often in recalling the past.

I owe the inspiration for so many of the characters and incidents in Uncle Arctica to the multitude of people I've had the pleasure, and displeasure of knowing throughout my five decades, and to all of the outlandish things that have happened along the way.  The tale I am about to relate would provide the setting for a pivotal chapter in my novel Uncle Arctica. It’s a memory I will cherish for the rest of my days.

Ten years ago, I was happy to have had the frequent and particularly good company of two extraordinary teenagers -- Erik and Kristen Rachel. They were the eldest of four children, and always game for whatever adventure their eccentric, middle-aged mentor might have in store for them.

We had escaped to the Indiana Dunes, on Lake Michigan. I had picked them up -- twenty minutes late -- in my red '75 Nova. It had a full, black roof, and everything about it -- down to the way it smelled -- just plain felt like 1975. We made the National lake shore ten minutes ahead of schedule.

The kids had never been to the ocean, nor anything remotely like it. The Lakeshore was an epiphany to them: nothing but sand, sea, and blue sky. It was a bright, hot day and the place was packed. The wind was light, so there was no surf. Chicago looked like stubble on the horizon. I charged straight into the water -- hat, clothes, and all. Erik followed. Rachel, being sensible, changed into her swimsuit. The water was perfect! We swam a long time and incurred the ire of the lifeguards several times, by drifting too far out - it was glorious!

We ate lunch, loafed on the beach, then resolved to ascend Mt. Tom. We strained up the white, sand slope barefoot and greeted a happy family of Mexicans near the summit. They seemed favorably impressed by my authentic, vintage La Playa vest and our cheerful greeting of them in their native tongue. Our trek went on and on. We visited the marsh with its boardwalk, and enjoyed many striking marvels of nature while steadfastly ignoring the sky-- which was growing ever darker. We kidded ourselves for the next couple of miles that the occasional, distant rumbles were jets from Chicago O'Hare. We finally ended out eastern leg, turned north and reached the summit of the great dunes overlooking Lake Michigan. The sky was black – oh man, was it black! We huddled together and took a selfie with that angry, inky sky looming behind our silly grins.

We descended the dune, but stopped short of the beach -- where there was certainly surf now. The howling wind sent ten-foot breakers roaring ashore; lightning stabbed the stygian lake, thunder exploded, rain and sand stung our faces. It was a scene of wild, primal power and chaos, desolation and danger. A blinding bolt of white fire snaked through the air directly overhead, cracking the sky with a sound like bad news on judgement day. There were startled shouts of profanity as we scrambled back up the rough, steep slope. We raced westward along the crests and down into the blowouts, battered by slanting sheets of rain and that stinging wind-blown sand. It was pure, absolute adventure -- and we loved every perilous moment of it! We made the next trailhead and, sheltering in the forest, pulled out a pathetic little umbrella and map. It would be four miles back to the car.

The storm finally diminished, and Erik, now wearing only shorts and a black leather fedora, took my vest to stop his shivering. Rachel and I shared the umbrella, which did little more than keep the rain out of our eyes. Eventually we reached a nature center, and turned in to get a drink and warm up. Erik drew not a few stares and smirks.

At last, we reached our parking lot. Down on the beach, all was still. The crowds had fled. The sky was yet a great black vault. We waded into the calm water, and stood silently. In the west, the clouds opened a little and the sun appeared, orange and flat, turning that part of the sky into a soaring canyon of lurid purple and red. Shafts of splendor tumbled down to illuminate Chicago, on the far shore. A freighter sat a mile out, her smoke ascending straight up to the sully the newly purified air.

One by one, without a word, we waded ashore and returned to the car. It is so very hard to leave a scene like that; to step out of a painting that you were just a part of, the last strokes of which are not even dry -- after living an adventure that is now just a rollicking, good tale.

Night fell as we rolled down I-65, the old Nova’s hood reflecting a highway galaxy of tail lights, turn signals, barricades, street lights, and overhead signs. Erik had not brought anything to change into. He rode alone in the back seat all the way to Lafayette, wearing nothing but a black, leather fedora on his head, and my safari hat on his lap. At the Outback, we guzzled down six pitchers of water before dinner arrived. We realized that we'd hiked eight miles, barefoot, on sand, with only a brief slurp out of a fountain.

The years have flown by, and the kids have gone on to live their own adventures. Kristen attended the birth of my daughter, and went on to become a Registered Nurse, and a spritely Irish-step dancer. It is rumored that in recent years Erik was seen in a mob that had stolen all of restroom-stall doors in Germany; was spotted luxuriating at a mud bath festival in South Korea; and nearly discovered on a strictly off-the-record tour of a Russian warship in Vladivostok, which only cost him three bottles of vodka.
​
I can’t wait to read his adventure novel!

Chilling night had fallen over the Rift Valley, and Patrick Kimaiyo huddled with
his wife and two children in the underbrush, by the Nzoia River. A mere fifteen
hundred feet away, his town—Mois Bridge—was burning. They could hear
shouting, and war chants, and screaming. They could smell smoke. Kikuyus burning the homes of Luos; Luos killing Kalenjins; Kalenjins striking back. Looters. Roving machete-gangs. Arson mobs.

The December 2007 elections had gone badly and Kenya was in flames.
Ethnic tensions, aggravated by drought and government ambivalence exploded in a conflagration of bloody anarchy. Patrick looked at his terrified young wife and tiny children. He wanted to hide his face and die, rather than see the anguish of his shivering family, and of his crying people—of his beloved Kenya.

Then his cell phone rang. Who could that be? he wondered. It turned out to be a friend from the United States who had become concerned because he hadn't heard from Patrick for more than a week. He offered prayers and encouragement, and promised to send a little money.

Patrick could not believe it. In his moment of deepest despair had come this
glimmer of hope from the most unlikely place. Now, if we can only make it until morning, he thought. Morning came and he cautiously made his way to the bank which, operating on limited, emergency hours, was only open until noon. Again, he was astonished: the money was there! For the first time in three days, his family ate a meal.

I was the guy who called in the middle of that terrifying night by the river. I had made Patrick's acquaintance three years earlier on the internet, and had occasionally sent supplies for his little orphanage.

It was surreal to sit in my cozy little cubicle at work the next day—the sun shining through the beautiful morning sky. An eerie, sinking feeling overtook me as I pondered how that the same sun was just going down in Mois Bridge, and how it would be another cold, harrowing night of danger and exposure for my African friends.

I felt helpless. I'm used to fixing things, making things happen for people, moving and shaking, and seeing things through. But now, all I could do was pray, and send encouraging emails.

Order was eventually restored in Kenya, and people started putting their shattered lives back together under the shadow of a crushing drought, and extreme paranoia. I began to raise funds and remit them to Patrick. Our friendship continued to grow closer and stronger.

One day—some years later—we were chatting online via instant messenger, and Patrick asked, "Papa, what do you have in your heart for me, today?"

I said, "Patrick, I think you probably have far more for me, than I have to offer you."

He said, "Listen to me. Do you remember when Kenya was burning, and I just wanted to hide my face and die?"

"I remember," I replied.

"My phone rang. I thought, ‘who can this be?’ And it was you! And you said you loved us, and were praying for us, and you were going to send us some money. I couldn't believe it. But when I went to the bank the next morning, hoping against hope, the money was there! You have no idea what you did for us, Papa."

He went on, "I still tell that story to people, and they cry because they remember those nights, and can't believe that someone would just call like that! You don't understand—that never happens here! It is a sign to them that God is faithful, Papa."

I suddenly felt very humble.

I mentioned in my last blog that, in general, I don't feel like I’ve ever really done much with my life—haven't served in the armed forces, haven't traveled farther abroad than Vancouver B.C., or London, Ontario, or had a successful career in some company.

Patrick was reminding me that that life is all about the little things. The little things are what we have in abundance that we can share freely, even easily. The little things are what get people by in a pinch. And the little things often have a huge impact that we will never know about.

The King will answer and say to them, “Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of mine, even the least of them, you did it to me.”
Matthew 25:40

 At Arsenal Technical High School there is a Latin motto inscribed somewhere over a door, or on a sundial or something; it says TEMPUS FUGIT. Time flies.  Kids always used to snicker and instead say “Tempus Fidget!” Tempus Fugit and Tempus Fidget – indeed, time flies, and time fidgets.  The years fly past us; day in and day out the hours and minutes squirm from our grasp and are gone.

I spent my early years in the Episcopal Church and, as in any other social gathering of hominids, it had its issues. But there were a lot of downright good people in that church; warm hearted folks of whom I have many fond memories. One of them was my mother.

Mom told me a few years ago that once upon a time, some scintillating intellect thought it would be really neat to expose the children's Sunday school to a little Old Testament heritage.  This genius brought an antique miniature Torah scroll (the first five books of the Hebrew Bible) to show-and-tell.  And somehow this Rhodes Scholar thought it would be just brilliant to place this cherished  artifact into the grubby little hands of antsy six-year-olds, to be passed around.

I must have been impressed because Mom said that when it got to me I held it up by its spindles — a fragile span of tan parchment stretched between — and said "Look Mommy!" It tore in half.  At six tender years of age, I had torn a Torah Scroll in half!  Little did I comprehend the prophetic implications. What was an Episcopalian even doing with a Torah scroll anyway?

I escaped the Episcopate seven years later. I used to fault that church with a lot —  yet it gave Mom a community where she could practice her faith.  And I used to fault Mom with a lot, too —  yet out of her simple faith she taught me the one thing for which I will always be thankful.

Late on her last night on earth, as she grappled with the most tormenting, agonizing pain she had ever experienced —  at least since the night I was born —  I thanked her for that one thing.

I looked into her anguished face and said "You know what the most important thing you ever taught me was?" 

She bit her lip and shook her head.  "You taught me how to pray... And how to really cheat at Uno!"

And that made her laugh.

Mom also taught me something else. How to take time.  She took the time to make sure that as children we were exposed to good literature, good music, the arts, culture, religion, and travel.  Mom took the time to teach us how to help and encourage others, to be our brother’s keeper; and as I mentioned, she took time to teach us how to pray.  She took time to encourage us, and to nurture our creativity, she took time to stay in touch and keep up on our endeavors and those of our friends.  She always took time to listen.  She took the time to write letters and thank you notes.  She took time to make needlepoint mementos for her neighbors.  She was always thinking about what she might get or make for her kids, and her grandchildren. Mom had a deeply caring spirit.

In my last blog I talked about the nagging guiltiness I felt over writing a novel versus other pursuits — and how, in the end, those feelings turned to ones of validation.  Yet there was one more phantom that haunted me. I often felt that I was not spending enough time with my kids — that they were just sort of being swept along in my wake. I worried if, as a father, I was setting a positive example for them.  Working a full time job stripped enough of my time from them but then to add writing a novel to that?  I told myself that I was writing Uncle Arctica in a bid to a secure better future for them.  That was and is true. But that didn’t make me feel any better about this whiling away of my time.

Then something wonderful happened.  My twelve-year-old daughter (who didn’t even start to talk until she was four,) suddenly took to writing! She began to fill notebooks with fanciful stories. She even produced a 5,000 word epic on the computer! Now, when she isn’t transcribing her work into the word processor her little brother is on the computer writing his own tales.  The other night I was watching a documentary for research on The Storms of Tarshish.  She came in and said “Pa, you ought to be taking notes!”  And when I asked my oldest son to read this blog, he perused it then barked “Clean it up!” in a stern tone, and stalked out of the room.

The paperback proof copy of Uncle Arctica arrived in the mail yesterday. My daughter was in awe (I was pretty impressed, too!) Then I realized that my kids had been watching their dad diligently invest his time in a long, arduous project, which he brought to completion — and that they had started to emulate his behavior. It doesn’t matter to them if I am not a six-figure executive. They’re able to hold a book in their hands that has their father’s name on it.  They can see it for sale online. They can check it out from the library.  And they can ask their friends “So, what does your dad do with his time?”

     I grew up watching old cartoons — Looney Toons, and Merrie Melodies. Chuck Jones and Fritz Freling took inspired dementia and set it to classical music, without a shred of political correctness. Hungarian Rhapsody with the Three Little Pigs; The Hebrides Overture with Inki the Minah Bird; Carl Stalling's rendition of Power House that drove all that animated Rube Goldberg mayhem; and the immortal Ride of the Valkyries with Elmer Fudd crying “Kill da wabbit!”  It all had a huge impact on my creativity from the get-go. When I hear good music I still see movies in my head, and it comes out in my writing. Everyone who’s read Uncle Arctica says it plays like a motion picture in their imaginations. 

     I  didn't actually set out to write a novel, back in 2008.  The story grew out of little vignettes I scrawled between hellish customer interactions in a call-centration camp — in Rura Penthe.  Eventually those scraps became chapters. I read them to friends who begged for more and insisted that I had to finish it. I was enjoying the story too, so I assented.  All artists struggle when crafting their work, and the decision to actually write Uncle Arctica triggered a crisis for me. Content wasn't my problem.  I wrestled over whether I should  be writing a novel instead of religious materials.  But I pressed on with it, because the story in my head wouldn't stop.
    
      Along the way, I ended up with one of Robert Kiyosaki's Rich Dad, Poor Dad books and learned about passive income strategies. I realized that my only true, marketable asset and ticket to a better future was Uncle Arctica.  I decided I would publish. I got John Locke's How I sold 1 Million eBooks in 5 Months.  I bought the hype.  And that was okay for a moment, because it changed my perspective and it kept me going forward.  But now Kiyosaki is bankrupt and Locke disgraced,  and I am older, and wiser.  Yet I found in their books a few positives that gave me motivation, hope, and a strategic perspective I didn't have before, and I am still running on that steam.
    
     But Locke also triggered my second dilemma: artistic integrity — was I going to craft this story as art, or was it just a project with strictly mercenary intentions?  The next “how to write a novel” book I picked up also declared “Sorry Kid, it ain’t about the art, it’s about the money.”  This offended my sensibilities, so I got some new books. These suited me and, momentarily comforted, I forged ahead with my writing.  
    
     I was feeling better about the whole thing when a lady in the Bible study I used to lead suddenly remembered that I had video skills. She began harping about how I should be making my millions by producing Hebrew Roots teaching DVD's. To compound my quandary, a friend came back from Israel, certain that his year-long study of the prophets foretold imminent catastrophe in the Middle East.  He advised that I should reconsider my literary pursuits and prepare for Armageddon. I must say, his evidence was compelling — blood-red moons and all. The pangs of guilt returned, but I forced myself to remember how many times I’d heard all of this in the last twenty years. I decided not to allow the perennial Semitic saber-rattling to once again become a self-sabotaging crutch of apocalyptic fatalism.  A good choice, as my friend had to scale back his eschatological forecast a few months later.  I hope he’ll read my book!
    
     I finished the manuscript.  And as I sat contemplating marketing angles, I had an epiphany: in marketing you learn that every successful product must have a Unique Selling Proposition or USP — the thing that makes it a new and exciting must-have. Bible teachers, hot-dog vendors, and Drew Harmon must all find and present their product’s USP.  So there it was:

Nobody else had written Uncle Arctica. Uncle Arctica was, in and of itself, my USP. That was an empowering revelation. 

      My dilemma between pursuing art versus churning out literary popcorn was also recently put to rest.  Lying in bed one morning, I remembered an interview I saw with Chuck Jones who, when asked if they had made Looney Toons for kids or for adults, answered:

"We didn't make them for kids. We made them for ourselves."

 

 

 

 

 

 

Trespass Island is a real place, although few people call it by that name. Mainly because I made it up about ten years ago. But I'm hoping it will catch on. It's a small, wooded island halfway between the sailing club and the dam. It has a cove on the side that faces the club, a cape on the other end, and is surrounded by shallow shoals. It is inhabited seasonally by hostile natives - the tribe Branta canadensis. You know the ones. Canada geese.

I've sailed on that lake my entire life, and as far as I can remember, I had never set foot on that nameless shore until my firstborn suggested that he'd like to check it out. He was six, and still blissfully unaware of the many predicaments in which he might find himself, should he actually convince his dear old indulgent dad to attempt the landing.

My own father always denied my requests to visit the island. He was willing to sail me in close to the lily-pad-choked shoals, but no farther. Although the Lightning Class yacht drafts a mere six inches of water with the centerboard retracted, its big lobe-shaped rudder cuts deep at all times. Getting it wrapped in lake-weed and stuck in the mud was not something Dad fancied. His sense of adventure was tempered by wisdom.

Mine, apparently, was not; because that is exactly what I did on our first attempt. It was a hot and nearly windless day. We paddled, bobbed, and drifted more than we sailed. The motorboat chop was relentless and not only impeded our progress, but when we reached the island it drove us out of the narrow channel that led into the cove, and carried us far onto the shoal.

The lily pads are all gone on our end of the lake, but now an invasive weed called Asian Milfoil chokes the shallows, so I pulled up the centerboard. I was hauling the sails down when a wake-boat passed by, throwing a huge swell our way. I knew this wasn't going to be pretty. I told my son to hang on as the waves rolled into the shallows and became three-foot breakers. They pitched our Lightning nearly on her side with each passing surge.

At last it was over: We were rattled, but right side up. And the rudder was planted firmly in the muck. It was a trick, but I got it out of its hinges, and worked it free from the sludgy bottom. I pulled the anchor out and cast it off the bow. Then getting a solid set on the bottom, I pulled the boat forward a few yards. I repeated the process until my shoulders ached and my hands were raw. And so, we kedged our way back to deep water, fighting lake-weed and breakers the whole way. Mercifully, a little breeze came up, and we were able to sail the mile back to the club.

It would be a year before our next invasion attempt. And it would be another blazing, windless day, and a long haul. This time, we dropped the sails, pulled the rudder, and raised the centerboard as we moseyed into the narrow slot between the shallows. It was worth the trouble. My son was delighted by the little fishes that darted through the aquatic jungle of milfoil. Turtles by the dozen basked on mossy logs, herons sulked near the muddy banks. Cormorants spread their black wings and sunned and the bare branches of a dead tree. A flight of blue-winged teal made a break for it and flew over our heads. My boy couldn't wait to explore the island.

Then I saw it. Nailed to a tree. A white sign. Red letters. I glared at it with contempt. No Trespassing. After our epic struggle? I fumed in my mind. After all of our efforts! No Trespassing? A little boy's expectations are at stake, for crying out loud! No Trespassing? Ridiculous! The Water Company or the State owns this, right? I pay taxes!

I was glad my boy hadn't noticed the sign, for he was (and still is) far more righteous than I, and never would have consented to going ashore had he noticed it.

A decision had to be made...

Uncle Arctica is about making decisions - good ones, and bad ones. It's about how we justify the decisions we make - and how those decisions impact us and every one around us, sometimes for years to come. It’s also about sailing, madcap situations and harrowing predicaments. It’s about fear and fun. It’s about friends and jerks—and folks who are a little of both. It’s about love and abandonment. It’s about being a kid. It’s about summer at the lake.

So, did I decide to be a bad Dad and go ashore? I won't tell you publicly because, as it turns out, the island is privately owned.

But there is a reason it's called Trespass Island...