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One of the fast fiberglass boats took our luggage across the lake earlier that morning. These boats would have been competitive in offshore powerboat racing and they made the passage between the landing and the lodge in much less than the one hour the older boats needed. Most of the guests who didn't have their own boats traveled on these. They saved time, and the closed cabins protected the passengers from the wind. But June and I wanted to take it easy, enjoy the scenery, and relax on the way out to the lodge. So we waited for one of the lodge's antiques.

Our craft was a restored 1955 mahogany Chris Craft speedboat. In its day, the boat was one of the fastest around, but this morning we would motor across the lake at a sedate twenty miles per hour. The boat was classically beautiful. The lacquered finish on the wood seemed to have depth, the grain stood out, and the chrome fittings had a mirror polish. A small staff affixed to the stern carried an American flag with the stars arranged into an anchor.

Under the padded red leather-covered hatch in the center of the boat, the old engine rumbled discretely. When we backed away from the dock, the exhausts burbled and popped as water washed over them.

Our boat driver was a tall handsome black man with a Jamaican accent named John. He was wearing a thick gray Irish fishermen's sweater and a weathered yachting cap set at a jaunty angle. John advanced the ...

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