We don’t eat much for breakfast around here. Coffee is the main source of nutrients in the morning, with the grounds on the bottom of the cup providing a filler until noon.

Eye-contacting conversation is also lacking in the early a.m. as the steaming cups of coffee are told what the day’s plans are, which cow needs a shot of medication, or to what part of the country a parts run is required.

A couple mornings ago, Ed started drawing a little doodle for his cup of Joe on the corner of the newspaper. He was tilting his head sideways, erasing and adding parts. My cup of coffee really wanted to know what was being said so quietly. I gave it heck for turning lukewarm, and then my over-the-shoulder doodle glance on the way to the pot spilled what was left all over the floor.

Leaning close to Ed’s cup, I told it in a not-so-merry morning voice that we would not even think about purchasing a boat!

He did have cute little sails attached and a name scribbled along its side fit for the lady of the house – “Emily’s Cruiser” – but I had to pour us both a fresh cup as mine was reminded of past near-death experiences on the water.

As my coffee’s steam turned to whitecaps, I had trouble catching my breath as I heard young Ed’s voice say, “Emily, swim faster back to the boat! The snapping turtle is catching up to you!”

My forefinger went numb as I recalled the words “It’s OK, Em, we’ll just cut the end of the hook off and the doctor can get the rest out when we get back to town.”

Breaking into a cold sweat, I had to get up and run around the kitchen table as I remembered all the leeches stuck to my legs after I put my feet in the nice cool bucket of “bait water” to cool off.

I thought back to all the times we tried to find the dock with cigarette lighters after one too many trips around the lake watching the beautiful sunset, which wasn’t fully comprehended until the sun had actually “set.”

Our weekend trips to “End of the Road” Resort usually ended in fines and scoldings as, nine times out of 10, our rental boat came back to the dock half-full of water, without an anchor, or missing a motor. The resort’s owner, “Ol’ Gilligan,” as we nicknamed him, finally suggested a pontoon rental to save what was left of his fleet.

Now, you just can’t imagine the things that can be stored and packed onto one of those things! Trip after trip back and forth from Ed’s old truck brought everything aboard but the kitchen sink. Securing the mini-grill and cooler in one corner, we were off to spend a day of boating bliss while loafing in lawn chairs and tuning in to the big old boom box equipped with our eight-track tape collection.

With burgers “easy over” the railing after someone forgot to zip the “Ziplocs,” a round of fishing for lunch reeled in a bullhead and an old boot. Opening and quickly closing the minnow bucket, we both agreed to stop for some fast food on the way home.

Ed wouldn’t admit it to this day, but he had to “go,” and it wasn’t the kind of “go” he could do with his back to me while standing up. There was a tiny island in the midst of our sea of bliss that he kept looking at and commented how nice it would be to dock over there for a while and check out the funky-looking tree shaped like a goose. It was a little rough on that side of the lake and I was nervous as all get-out looking at the big rocks along the shore, but Ed was determined, so in we went.

The cooler was smashed to smithereens but saved the right side of the pontoon from the first big rock. The waves had completely turned us around while anything and everything we had aboard was placed and destroyed between the rest of the rocks and the motor.

I looked in disbelief as Ed tossed the gas can out to jump on so he wouldn’t get wet in his hurry to “check out the goose tree.”

As I was standing in the middle of the pontoon with nothing left but the old boot and half an eight-track tape, Ed came back with a smile on his face, saying the tree was the best resemblance of a goose he’d ever seen. I didn’t ask why he only checked out the back side.

Sunburned, tired, and hungry, we managed minimal damage to the pontoon from the rocks on our sendoff, but halfway back, the motor started putzin’ and we both cried as the gas can floated past us with its mini-life jacket on and a smiley face painted on its side.

Ol’ Gilligan was holding the gas can and waiting to help us unload as we rowed in past dark. He didn’t offer to carry the boot, but I didn’t care – it would be used later.

Tallying up the rental hours, Ed reached for his wallet. If we had drunk coffee way back then, I would have told his cup on which side of the amazing goose tree it could be found…