Deb and I worked sporadically on the Bobby, and I read in Dad's diary that we launched it on Mom's birthday or July 29. I remember it took Gerald Slate, Dad, Deb, Betsy and I to bring the boat back to the beach where we launched it to see if Deb and I had achieved a "success". or failure” in our efforts to make it watertight. We had to wait a few days for the results to allow the rushing water to swell the wood and thus tighten the joints. I remember Deb and I pumped the water out after a few days, then noted, “Look, Deb, the leaks have slowed down to a trickle. We now had another means of transportation to add to our growing fleet. I found some old black and white photos from 1961 that show me taking Mom, Betsy and Deb several rows through the canals surrounding Comfort. Rowing a skiff is relatively easy, although working the oars took some getting used to. Each individual oar fits over a pin in the gunwale and the handle extends in front of the person rowing. Rowing a skiff is tricky because the handles overlap in the middle of the boat. It took me some time to coordinate the movement of bringing the oars together without jamming them. One oar should be in front and the other just behind. Then I would dunk them in the water and leave. The easiest part about rowing a skiff is that it goes where it's pointed, and it glides very far once it starts because it's quite heavy. As Hughie and I learned, skiffs are not easy to land because the nine-foot oars get in the way near the dock. Having dinghies, canoes, kayaks, and other self-contained transportation using oars or paddles, I consider the St. Lawrence Skiff my favorite. It was possible to explore inner bays and other channels that were too narrow...... middle of paper. .....e embers. I had more fun than ever before in two summers. Santa Barbara was a special setting, but the Thousand Islands were even better. Being just steps from a beach, fishing or boating was fantastic, and in the years to come I will see how it could get even better. For the first time I had the taste of becoming a “river rat”. I didn't know what the term meant at the time, but I have come to know and appreciate what it was over the fifty years I have migrated here. Being a river rat is a lot of things. It is the sound of ducks, geese and osprey calling. It is the flow of the river that gurgles and gently slaps the shoreline on its journey to join the Atlantic Ocean in Nova Scotia. It's a call heard by those of us who cannot escape the magic of this unique setting. The pull and lure of the mighty St. Lawrence River had taken hold of my psyche forever..