We slept until after noon. I was able to persuade myself to wake up when I realized that we had ingredients and implements with which to prepare omelets. The combination of eggs, bacon, and cheese, as Coach likes to say with his omniscient grin, “works every time”.

Kelzie, defying millions of mothers' advice to wait 45 minutes after a meal before swimming, waited just as long as it took her to get to the lake behind the cabin. Dangerous? Not nearly as dangerous as it would have been for swim-dim me to get in the water, full stomach or no. I sat and waited for her. See, when she was a kid, she spent summers in this cabin, swimming in this lake — and after yesterday's forced invasion of my old camp and what must have been a deeply boring service, it was the least I could do to sit on the edge of a quiet lake on a beautiful day for a few minutes while she did her best fish impression. It was spot-on, too, at least until she reeled herself in.

We had the option of canoeing, or not. She seemed impartial, and I was deeply content either way. After volleying our lack of preference, the decision somehow evolved — think Statler and Waldorf, except with neither of them ornery, and one delicious to the eyes — that we would.

Of course, when we arrived at the nearby Ding's Dock and began floating down the Crystal River, I recognized it all from my CYJ days, but tried (mostly to success) to shut up about it already. We had to get out of the fiberglass “canoe” a few times when passage proved slightly tricky, but mostly the river was very calm. It certainly calmed me; for several lazy late afternoon minutes, I stopped paddling entirely and leaned back in the boat, enjoying the easy grace with which the athlete in front moved and kept the boat moving. And to think, we almost didn't bother!

Her grandfather, our host of sorts, invited us to dinner. Naturally, we accepted. My stomach, which had reached nearly the capacity of an empty canoe, fully appreciated its allotment of Orange Roughy.

We returned the movie, listened to Mompou's Rossinyol que vas, and zonked out.