Not A Park To Go Barefoot In

"You ain't told the truth today yet, either," the grizzled guide said.

As we poled farther down, Douglas whispered, "That's my father-in-law."

Tucked into the next cove we found another boat and another pair of silent fishermen. "Inny action, Douglas?" a young guide asked.

"Not yet," Douglas said. "Don't seem to be in here today."

Just then one of our captured snook slapped against the side of the fish well. Douglas coughed loudly. "We're going out and look for 'em," he said to the other guide. "What're you gonna do?"

"I'd sit right cheer and drink a soda with you all, if we had a soda," the man said.

"We ain't got but one between us," Douglas said, "or we'd share. You could go by the hermit's house and get some water."

"All he's got to drink is moonshine," said the other guide. "Last time I stopped there I didn't get home for a day and a hife."

We moved along, and Douglas said, "That's my brother-in-law. Reckon you've noticed that everybody around here is kinfolk? Well, this was originally my father-in-law's spot, and he told me and my brother-in-law. That's how come we all to be here today."

I asked Douglas why he had—er, uh—lied to the very man who had shown him the spot. Didn't it make a difference to him that they were his own in-laws he was deceiving? Douglas said that when it came to fishing holes he didn't have any in-laws. Didn't have any mother or father or sisters or brothers. Or friends, either. He gave me a look, and I said, "Douglas. I haven't the vaguest idea where we are. You know that."