It was eleven o'clock in the morning. The golden red sun seared my neck, and my arms ached from the non-stop paddling. As I steered my kayak around the island, the water became as smooth as glass. The water was always silky smooth between Three Mile Island and Beach Island. For this I was thankful. I was headed to our old cottage on lot 32. I had spent most of my child hood right on these very waters. Every day in the summer was spent riding the wave-runners, playing card games and those endless games of horse- shoes. As my Dad says, "Those were the good old days."
             I had never been out on the river during the month of May. There was an eerie feeling on solitude. As far as my memory takes me back, there was always the hum of people and motor boats. That day, there was nothing. There was no one but me and the sound of the water dripping off the paddles. Since the docks had not been put in yet, I began to worry. Where was I was going to tie my kayak and how I was going to get over the retaining walls. When I arrived at lot 31 I was relieved that our neighbor was a bad craftsman. The wall had sunken three feet into the crumbling earth. I had an easy time tying the kayak, climbing over the warped wall. I turned carefully to the left as not to sink in the piles of dried leaves and branches. Step by step I walked over to our side. There were the stairs to our old cottage.
             It was an odd sight, those barren stairs. Never had I seen them naked without the gangway. Still I could not yet see our cottage. The steps were three feet above my head. I did not think this was going to be this hard. I was beginning to become frustrated. Finally some saplings served as hand holds and I climbed my way up the littered bank. I was in the midst of brushing the dirt off my new yellow and blue bathing suit when I looked up. My heart sank. I was speechless. I expected to see the bright yellow awnings, the once famo...