Be Careful What You Name Her

Funny of the day: So I’m out rowing on the river and I pass lots of the usual, half frozen, overweight, but nice enough fishermen in their metal jet-sleds. (And I say fishermen, not fishers quite intentionally, because the women are all too smart to sit around in an aluminum boat in the drizzle with 5-10 knots of wind in early March.) I like the fishermen because they’re on the water for the same reason I am. For themselves. To see just a little of the mystery of the river. They’ll gladly talk if you stop, but otherwise they just nod, if they acknowledge you at all.

These rainy season days are great without the boom-boom radios blaring off of overhead bars on wakeboard boats. No five to one ratios of over-beered, future melanoma men and one bikini-clad woman silently screaming, “look at me!”

But we’re here to laugh, not analyze the denizens of the Willamette. So the tubbiest not-a-metal rowboat, but a beamy, bathtub-like sled that would make a great bow for a twenty footer comes rumbling by with three big guys crammed in it. As it passes, I see it is named Sea Nymph. I think, if that’s what a sea nymph really looks like, give me a gnome.

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