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Roy Blankley is a six generation New York State resident whose great great grandfather was
an old time circuit judge. Their family estate is now a museum along twelve mile creek, twelve
miles from the mouth of Lake Mento. Google map shows it on the other side of Blankley Road,
near a bushy inlet, with no other houses around.
Roy was born and raised on the lake. The third of five boys, he always played 'catch up' in a
birth order that had him as pinned as an insect in a collection of old world has-beens. He has
enough money but it is doled out as a trust so often is and so, even though he does not have to
work, his deep unhappiness with his life keeps him an unmarried hermit wearing his father's old
clothes and neglecting upkeep of another historic house his parents had left him. He seldom
bathed or washed his hair but he figured the creek kept him clean enough. Over the years Roy
becomes a more than proficient fishing and gaming guide.
He has a diving license and can fix any broken down motor the marina at the mouth of twelve
mile creek calls him about. He even welds underwater.
On the weekends Roy meets with a militia group who 'murder' each other with paint balls and all
the other Para-military games 'Lost Boys' on this side of the lake like to play.
Every year, he and three others circumnavigate Mento and its fellow lakes in a yacht race. The
cup is to boat racing what the World Series is to baseball and what the Daytona 500 is to
NASCAR. With the Gold Cup in his grasp, for the ninth time Roy hoped for better competition
every year.
The Lake Mento 300 yacht race course is a circumnavigation of the lake that starts at Port
Debit Yacht Club, heads east and rounds goose Island, then heads south to Oslego NY where it
turns east along the south shore to the Giagara River mark before heading to the finish line at
Port Debit Yacht Club. The race is a test of preparation, teamwork, navigation and perseverance.
'Captain Roy Boy' leads the three man team to victory every year. The family marina made good
from these wins in boat sales, docking, slip rentals, engine repairs, supply sales, launching and
hoisting fees.
Blankley Bay Marina, located on beautiful downtown Blankley Bay.
Roy figured the authorities wouldn't start searching until dawn. It was four thirty a.m. Re-
starting the Zeppelin he quietly pulled the Boston Whaler into Blankley Bay and up twelve mile
creek toward the circuit judge's historic home. He had played, swam, fished, and guided on the
creek all his life.
Finding the sheltered cove near the road where he had left his truck several hours later, he debark
the Zeppelin, deflated it and stuffed it on the truck. He would leave the other boat and deal with
it later.
Any idea how little changes over two hundred years in a small town? But to make a smaller
list, at least one descendant of the first four hundred to settle stays, even if it is a distant cousin.
Roy Blankley was a hanger on. In this vein he kept to himself, kept the peace, and was semi-
productive. Other cousins, and co-owners of the old family marina tried bossing him but Roy's
engine repair expertise kept them at bay and when he took any boat he wished on a 'test drive'
upon Lake Mento, which he did quite regularly, they could say nothing.
Heading due south, he arrived in Canada after a twenty minute speed ride, at his family¶s twin
marina in Bassering Ontario, only fifty miles away. Everyone was in a tizzy and no co-owner
wants to witness during a spot check: missing boats, wrecked boats, irate customers, suicidal
managers. And then it occurred to him. This was something he could do alone could completely
fix with no one the wiser. If years of Para-military exercises had taught him anything it was,
³Don¶t Tread on Me".
~

Bobbie and I shoplifted lunch five days a week at the local grocery store.
You'd be surprised how easy it is. Sometimes a customer sees, but we just open boxes and
gobble.
Back at school we smoke stolen cigarettes at the spot there, off property while waiting for the
bell, and the other four of us.
Once you are sixteen nobody chases you down if you are absent. The other four are sixteen but
still hang around for the shop classes with friends from public school.
Jeremy, Jason, Mattie and Dave pulled up to the smoking stop just off school property, in Dave's
mother's shit-box Chevy. He had dropped her off at work. Piling in, we head for this night's party
spot, Emily's house.
A little spliff is being passed and the joint and laughter are directed toward Mattie who swears
he will bring us Emma Lou Finlay's panties from her clothes line by next week at this time. By
this time next week we are all human Popsicles near the bottom of Lake Mento. Eight
hundred feet is fairly deep for a lake, even one dug out by a glacier like Mento was. It's cold all
year around and it's very narrow, only fifty miles across. A very angry glacier, and in a big hurry,
had gouged out our water play world. About the only thing I learned in geography class is that
glaciers do what they want, where they want, when they want, kind of like the Boys Six. We are
no match for this situation but we don't know it just yet. Pulling up at the marina after Emily's
party, it seems to me, we were not any more high and drunk than any other Saturday night.
A speedboat with keys and a full tank does not look like a 'set up', at the time. Naivety is a
stupid reason to die. How long can we expect owners of millions of dollars of yachts to put up
with the antics of six little ass holes, like us?
~
It might seem irrational for a seventeen year old to be caught up in the mess like this turns out
to be. Fifteen years down here has gives a person some maturity, perspective and insight. The
guy in the camouflage blow-up was the second part of the 'set up'. Putt putting along, we waits
for the Whaler motor to cut out and then makes his move.
"Ahoy, 'sup?" His face is streaked black and his jumpsuit matches his boat colour. "Dude we're
dead in the water here, we don't think its gas though:" 'Dead in the water indeed'.
Dude says that he is part of coast guard practise manoeuvres that haven't started yet. He
would be happy to tow us back but the blow-up motorboat's outboard cannot handle that much
weight drag. Can we all pile on the paddle boat that we are pulling behind us? Since a couple of
us are wet, he will get the Boston Whaler after dropping us back at the marina. We cannot
believe our luck. He tosses six life jackets and we hop on the paddle boat.
~
Roy Blankley is a six generation New York State resident whose great great grandfather was
an old time circuit judge. Their family estate, now a museum, sits along twelve mile creek,
twelve miles from the mouth of Lake Mento. Google map shows it on the other side of Blankley
Road, near a bushy inlet, with no other houses around.
Roy was born and raised on the lake. The third of five boys, he always played 'catch up' in a
birth order that had him as pinned as an insect in a collection of old world has-beens. He has
enough money but it is doled out as a trust so often is and so, even though he does not have to
work, his deep unhappiness with his life keeps him an unmarried hermit wearing his father's old
clothes and neglecting upkeep of another historic house his parents had left him. He seldom
bathed or washed his hair but he figured the creek kept him clean enough. Over the years Roy
becomes a more than proficient fishing and gaming guide. He has a diving license and can fix
any broken down motor the marina at the mouth of twelve mile creek calls him about. He even
welds underwater.
On the weekends Roy meets with a militia group who 'murder' each other with paint balls and
all the other Para-military games 'Lost Boys' on this side of the lake like to play.
Every year, he and three others circumnavigate Mento and its fellow lakes in a yacht race. The
cup is to boat racing what the World Series is to baseball and what the Daytona 500 is to
NASCAR. With the Gold Cup in his grasp, for the ninth time Roy hoped for better competition
every year.
The Lake Mento 300 yacht race course is a circumnavigation of the lake that starts at Port Debt
Yacht Club, heads east and rounds goose Island, then heads south to Oslego NY where it turns
east along the south shore to the Giagara River mark before heading to the finish line at Port
Debit Yacht Club. The race is a test of preparation, teamwork, navigation and perseverance.
'Captain Roy Boy' leads the three man team to victory every year. The family marina made good
from these wins in boat sales, docking, slip rentals, engine repairs, and supply sales, launching
and hoisting fees.

Jason just got back from four days on observation at the local psych hospital, something about
suicide. He said it wasn't bad there. They even had a school. It was short term because Jay isn't
nuts or anything like that. Some girl ditched him. It was all too much for him I guess. Next time
he thinks about killing himself he'll keep it to himself. Jason arrived at the Loony Bin with a full
and perfect Mohawk hair style. He used soap from the washroom to make it stick up way high,
spending hours in front of public washroom mirrors. Noticing that there was only one hair out of
place, the treatment school teacher told him it was, "absolutely perfect", anyway. This
observation by her seemed to set him at ease and relax him. Some days later he disclosed to this
teacher that he had been sexually abused since he was six, by his natural mother. Telling her in a
low voice, a calm delivery, it was easy for her to not react to this unexpected pronouncement
during a math assignment. Professionals at the observation unit meet every morning and so she
was obligated to share this with the team. Neglect and abuse are the order of the day in the
adolescent unit, disclosing it to a teacher is rare, at any facility.
But this teacher knew Jason. as A student in her behaviour class, at a local school, a couple
of years ago, as a student in a behaviour class, Jason distinguished himself by bullying others,
insolence and swagger. He met me in this class. Academically more advanced, I was even more
able to waste my time and the time of others and still pass. We could hardly wait to quit at
sixteen, and we both did.
Jason's demons were bubbling just under the surface and his temper was legendary. In spite of
despising his mother, he would defend her to the death if anyone said, "your mother". This
contradiction drove him even more 'crazy' and after the Sycamore chic dumped him, he finally
cracked and drove off the pier in the next port town. Pretty bumped up, he survived only to go on
to two weeks observation for the stupidity of leaving his seat belt on during his µdeath¶ plunge.
They say suicide attempts are just temper tantrums. Thanks Dr. Phil and Oz and Opera, for
all the insight.
 Bobbie and I shoplifted lunch five days a week at the local grocery store.
You'd be surprised how easy it is. Sometimes a customer sees, but we just open boxes and
gobble.
Back at school we smoke cigs we stole from our parents at the spot there off property while
waiting for the bell and the other four of us.
Once you are sixteen nobody chases you down if you are absent. The other four are sixteen but
still hang around for the shop classes with friends from public school.
Jeremy, Jason, Mattie and Dave pulled up to the smoking stop just off school property, in
Dave's mother's shit-box Chevy. He had dropped her off at work. Piling in, we head for this
night's party spot, Emily's house. A little splif is being passed and the joint and laughter are
directed toward Mattie who swears he will bring us Emma Lou Finlay's panties from her clothes
line by next week at this time. By this time next week we are all human Popsicles near the
bottom of Lake Mento.
The older jokes among the six of us is always how I, "always flunk recess," and Jason, "can't
even kill himself right." HA.HA. Lots of noogies and 'Indian' burns follow all of this. Davey
and Mattie, as the youngest, got the worst of our rough stuff. After Jason was released with
some medication, we swallowed them all together that night with a bottle of 'Jack' Bobbie stole.
That was the night of the March seventeenth, 1995.
Bobbie is even more of a realist than me. He points out seagulls eating last night¶s party barf,
on an otherwise perfect day. No matter how many of us gasp and complain about his grossness,
we always look and spoil our appetites. Then he laughs and doubles over and gets another kind
of gut ache than ours, but a gut ache just the same. Bobbie's mother is raising him alone and buys
the 'fifty percent off' food in order to get them both fed.
Even shoplifted fresh food, was smelled by Bobbie for rotten bits. Old habits die hard.
Always the kind of kid who noticed the cockroach on the wall of the provincial museum on
the school trip, of course I yell, "COCKROACH!" The rest is better than watching a food fight
or Ultimate Fight Club. When confronted in the Principal's office I insist, "but there was a
cockroach!" While being lectured about the meaning of the word, µdiscretion', my eyes
involuntarily roll back in my head. Administrators consider that type of, µrolling the eye
movement as, µattitude', then things go haywire. In school suspensions are routine. That means
you get to stay inside at recess but in the office area so the teacher can still have a break. On
account of there being so many jerks, I hate recess anyway. My social skills are not the best.
Recess always ends with me in trouble everyday anyhow so it's, 'six of one, half dozen of the
other', as for what is going on.

Eight hundred feet is fairly deep for a lake, even one dug out by a glacier like Mento was. It's
cold all year around and it's very narrow, only fifty miles across. A very angry glacier, and in a
big hurry, had gouged out our water play world. About the only thing I learned in geography
class is that glaciers do what they want, where they want, when they want, kind of like the Boys
Six. The lake is primarily a result of glacial activity between one million and ten thousand years
ago. The last glacier receded approximately twelve thousand years ago.
Pulling up at the marina after Emily's party, it seems to me, we were not any more high and
drunk than any other night. A speedboat with keys and a full tank does not look like a 'set up', at
the time. Naivety is a stupid reason to die. How long can we expect owners of millions of dollars
of yachts to put up with the antics of six little assholes, like us?
 Dave misses Canada more than the rest of us. One evening, at dusk, he could just make out the
CN Tower and a few of the Bay Street skyscrapers. The lake was black as usually but the sky
was blood orange. The towers popped on the horizon. Davey popped up too. The lid of his barrel
started to peel away, from decomposition gas. Pressed down as it was, over a decade, it cracked
and surrendered to the frigid lake. Dave was in a pickle there. Parts of Davey started on their
freedom ride to Canada. Roy boy would not be pleased. He had spent a lot of time making sure
that sort of thing never happen.

We don't feel much of anything down here. We have our memories. The lake, being deep has a
tide, not an ocean tide but a pull just the same; makes me remember rocking with grandma while
mom worked. Rocking in the wicker chair, completed by a song, "Raindrops Keep Falling On
my Head," or "You Are the Sunshine of My Life." She doesn't know all the words and hums the
spots that are blank. To the creaking wicker and the humming grandma led me to sleep until
mom came in her own beat up Chevy to get me just around midnight, after every shift.
Yes, Davey misses Canada and we are starting to pine for Davey. As parts of him float, on
their freedom ride home to Canada, at home rumour and innuendo about our disappearance have
stopped. Parents have turned against each other. Peers have started jobs and families. But Davey
wafts his way home. And they might have made it too, except for the fish.
Not to a fish, but to any other creature on earth, an innocuous looking strand of something or
other, winding its way to the water surface, promises nothing bigger to come. But to our
Walleye following the trail to its source, a dark circle is lodged against a rock oozing with slime
near the bottom of Lake Mento, reaps him reward.
One push confirmed his mother-load. More of the same food leaked from every probe. Quite
a cache, but how to hoard it? A feeding frenzy would never do, smart fish, Walleye Pike. He
crashed to the surface and swam off. Every evening, upon returning, the location of his evening
snack was secure and known only to him. Davey's Gravy: and all of it his. For what seemed like
a long time, to a fish anyhow, he supped on and on, dining alone. Hannibal Lector eats his heart
out."
Not to a fish, but to any other creature on earth, an innocuous looking strand of something or
other, winding its way to the water surface, would promise nothing bigger to come but Walleye
follows the trail to its source, a dark circle lodging against a slimy rock near the bottom of Lake
Mento. One push confirms his mother lode of a find. More of the same food leaks with his every
probe. Quite a cache, but how to hoard it? A feeding frenzy would never do. Smart fish, a
Walleye Pike. He crashes to the surface and swims off.
Every evening, upon returning, the location of his evening snack was secure and known only
to him. All this Davey's Gravy for Mr. Walleye Pike.! For, what seemed like a long time, to a
fish anyhow, and he supped on and on; dining alone.
At home the rumour and innuendo about our disappearance had stopped. Parents had turned
against each other. Peers had started jobs and families. And Davey's bits and bites wafted their
way home. And they might have made it too except for the fish. A Muskie here, a Pike there is
wolfing down his Davey¶s and bites.
?