They called me at eleven on a Monday night. After the customary argument, I capitulated, and soon I found myself in a tiki bar with four boys, drinking with a two-foot-long straw out of a shared booze bowl in which floated flaming limes.
Our fleet totalled six boats. We were advancing on open water. Deep Cove was behind us. The sun was pitiless. Steep forested rock on both sides of this wide channel. This was Indian Arm, a fjord less than an hour’s drive from UBC.
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