[dropcap]T[/dropcap]he following story is true.
Yesterday morning, I went sailing. The gusts were clocked at three miles per hour, that’s slightly less velocity than Betty White with a bad case of gas. Under such conditions, I should’ve stayed home and cleaned the syrup that spilled in the refrigerator, but I wasn’t going to let common sense slow me down.
I sailed east, and was met with a sequence of misfortune. I soon found myself shipwrecked on a remote grassy island, three miles from shore, knee deep in mud, engulfed in a horde of bloodthirsty mosquitoes. Not a single boat passed by the island, I was there nearly all day.
When the afternoon light gave way to dusk, I sat down and started crying. I should’ve called my wife, but I knew she’d dangle such a thing over my head for decades. It simply wasn’t an option. So, I resolved to begin a new life on my little island, living off the land.
My sobbing fit was interrupted by an elderly fisherman who happened across my new continent. The old man approached me in his boat, threw me a line, and welcomed me aboard his vessel.
“You feel okay son, you been out here a long while.”
“Yeah,” I said. “But I’m depleted, and thirsty.”
“You got a wife? Anyone you wanna call?”
“Lord no, she’d never let me live this down. I’d rather drown than give that woman the upper hand.”
“Suit yourself,” the old man said. “But she sounded mad as a wet hornet when she called me to come find you.”