Lenny Ackerman

Quails

November 2020

The other day I went hunting for the first time in Florida, out on a 3000 plus acre preserve. The environment was magical, evocative of an African savanna. Though I was concentrated on the activity at hand, it was only a week after the election and politics were on my mind. I couldn’t help but see some parallels between my experience that day and some of the larger events taking place in our country. My quarry was the tiny Florida bobwhite quail–the Colinus virginianus floridanus–a small bird with speckles and earth-toned feathers which help it to camouflage in the undergrowth. Though their lifespan can be up to six years, most don’t live past two because of predators, both animal and human. Yet their numbers are steady due to short incubation periods and their prolific egg-laying – up to 300 in a season per adult female. They are individually vulnerable to the vicissitudes of their environment, yet they persevere and flourish as a species. It rained while we were out and the quail is unable to fly if its wings are wet, so it seeks shelter from the weather and its natural predator—the hawk—in bushes. However, its safety within the shrub is illusory, as it is there that it becomes victim to even greater forces: the hunter and his dogs. Our bird dog was able to lean in and grab the quail in its mouth with ease and deliver it to the hunting guide unharmed. The guide then threw the quail into the air, forcing it to fly a bit further, allowing the sport hunter the opportunity to shoot it down.

As Americans, we live proudly in a democratic society and don’t think of our system of government as ever being seriously threatened—especially from within. And yet we are witnessing something going on with the outgoing President that is at the very least dampening the wings of our democracy, making us vulnerable and subject to risks and unintended consequences. Like the weakened quail, we are diminished by these events–temporarily. But the recent voting results spoke louder than what any one person—or President—might say or do to destroy. We will persevere and flourish again because also like the quail, sheer numbers prevail.

Sunday Night at Lynora’s

November 2020

Every town should have a Lynora’s. The modest, Italian-style restaurant housed in a converted two-bay gas station sits tucked between a store that sells raw honey and another that sells lamps, and across from a take-out Chinese shop. With only a handful of outdoor tables on the former gas pump platform, Lynora’s serves mostly take-out, and the covid restrictions have led to a boom in business. They offer everything from fancy focaccia and burrata to humble homemade meatballs and spaghetti and it is all reliably delicious. They have been a part of the local community in Palm Beach going on 50 years now. Though the food is the draw, what I find most interesting about Lynora’s are the people. Young and old, black, white, brown and everyone in between. Alice at the cash register takes payment with the efficiency of a toll collector on the Triborough Bridge. The kids who wait tables and run orders hustle in a well-choreographed scrimmage. No special request is denied. I once heard someone order ketchup on his pizza instead of tomato sauce. Whatever the meal, it isn’t complete without the legendary coconut cream cake for dessert. Lynora’s has become our Sunday night ritual. By 9:00pm the pizza ovens start to cool down and the staff stack the metal chairs inside the pull-down garage doors. The lamp store parking lot empties of customers’ cars. The outdoor lights are dimmed to let travelers on South Dixie Highway know that Lynora’s is closing soon—last order please. The long chains that lower the garage doors are summoned. Time to think about tomorrow’s specials.

Florida Election Fever

October 2020

Palm Beach County is gripped by election fever. Lawns signs from both parties have popped up on every residential street, highway and byway. Given the fairly even distribution, there’s no clear majority. Former New York City Mayor Mike Bloomberg has committed $100 million to the Biden campaign in Florida– a hefty sum to allocate to one state, even a toss-up one with 29 electoral votes. Many of my friends who have returned here from New York are committed to Biden, but they don’t vote in Florida. Others with homesteader status to avoid New York income taxes have come down early to vote in person. Some are skeptical of voting by mail in Florida. My local friends are still fervently committed to Trump. At all levels of education and economics they still believe in Trump and nothing he says or does will change their minds. The latest Twitter rant from the Oval Office, or excerpts from the Bob Woodward book, Rage, don’t move them a bit. They’ve heard it all before. Florida is a big state with a diverse population. From Miami to Jacksonville to St. Augustine, there is a wide range of voter sympathies. In my conversations with people on both sides, it seems many are voting for the man not his policies. The boat brigade from Jupiter to West Palm, past Mar-a-Lago, who display their Trump flags with pride all along the Intercoastal, seem outdoorsy, water-friendly types. Then there is the gang that stands at the entrance to the bridge to Mar-a-Lago. Unmasked, bearded, tattooed, waving their flags, hoping to catch a glimpse of the President. If asked, they will tell you Covid is a hoax. Florida is not an open carry state, but I have seen their type around town with guns slung over their shoulders in flagrant defiance of the law. Scary folks. Any firepower is concealed at the bridge, which is closely monitored by the Coast Guard, Secret Service and the Palm Beach Sheriff’s Department. Cross that bridge and enter the manicured grounds of Mar-a-Lago, the palatial former estate of Marjorie Merriweather Post that now serves as the President’s Florida White House, and the cohort of Trump supporters couldn’t be more different. The composition of the typical black-tie guest is educated, sophisticated, professional, wealthy. Do they believe in the man and his policies? They turn a blind eye to everything but his economic policies, which impact them the most. A strong, albeit volatile stock market benefits them more than any concerns about a national plan to deal with Covid 19, or inhumane immigration practices or rioting in the streets. If the tax rate is friendly, they don’t mind any of that. They’re not bothered that our traditional allies have been demoted and dictators have been elevated, because Trump’s efforts to bring peace to the Middle East means more to them. Several of my Trump-voting friends and acquaintances are single-issue voters for that reason alone.

Recently I had lunch at Trump’s International Golf Club in West Palm Beach. It reminded me of a delicatessen on Third Avenue in New York City: the menu, the clientele, even the black-and-white photos on the walls of the men’s room (all of Trump, of course); reflections, perhaps, of his New York roots. Now, with Florida as the battleground, will the personal fortune of a former New York mayor thwart the Presidential re-election of a New York real estate magnate? We’ll have to wait for Election Day to find out.

New York City

October 2020

Well, I finally made to New York City. The traffic down from Maine was easy but once we crossed into the New York area it was a stressful six-hour drive. The ferry route to the North Shore is easy with an hour and a half of sitting outside and reading while someone else drives across the Long Island Sound. The traffic in New York City has built up since I was last here only a month ago. Seems more people around, probably due to families returning for school— classrooms were supposed to open but then didn’t. My 11-year-old grandson attends school remotely and my teenaged granddaughter goes in for one day while the rest is online. The little guy is with his mom in the country as she works from home. His father is the only one back in the office. Everyone one is without a plan. That’s why I headed to Florida, where the weather is warmer, the beaches are open, my exercise program is open, painting classes are beginning again, and outdoor dining is available.

We are careful and wear our masks everywhere and stay distanced. I am working remotely with Zoom and hold office meetings all day to keep the wheels turning. My office is busy as the demand for real estate in proximity to New York City is stronger by the day, while in a harsh paradox, the homeless population in the City has also grown. The shelters were emptied and the Mayor moved most homeless folks into hotels. Many choose to stay on the street, where the homeless women seem to outnumber the men. I wonder if sleeping in the open is safer for them, while the men crouch in doorways. I carry cash to hand out. Amid the sad sidewalk scenes, the City has clearly come back to life since Labor Day. Often it seems with as many dogs as people. During the pandemic, the shelters couldn’t accommodate their four- legged residents with reduced staff, so many of the animals were adopted by families in quarantine. Offices are still empty and there are no evening lights on along Park Avenue and the lower Wall Street financial district. But there are glimmers of normalcy as so many of the restaurants have spilled out onto the sidewalks and bike lanes, some enclosed with plastic shielding and heating devices to keep their patrons comfortable. People are eating much earlier before dark as the cold sets in from the river on the east side. The empty stores are like pauses between the busy restaurants. Broadway and Times Square are abandoned as is the West Side around Lincoln Center. From above large areas of the city are dark. It is like a wartime blackout. Perhaps it is a war, but one that wasn’t manmade, and in which the only weapon to ensure victory is a vaccine needle.

Conversations

October 2020

I had some interesting conversations this afternoon. I wasn’t seeking them out, but from time to time, when I am behind the wheel of my old ’62 Jaguar, I wind up meeting and talking to people I would never have crossed paths with otherwise. Someone will stop me, wanting to take a picture of a vintage automobile or, more often than not, the car will break down somewhere, which can lead to some memorable interactions, which brings me to what happened today.

I have been back in Florida for a couple of weeks now, and this morning I took the old Jag out for a ride, having just gotten it out of the shop for a repair on the starter key. It was to be my usual route along Ocean Road, south to Lake Worth, where I gas up at the Chevron station for the return north along Dixie Highway. The Jag is in full restoration mode, with a brand new transmission. But that starter key issue that I thought was fixed, well it wasn’t. My gas stop was a dead stop. I spent four hours waiting for a tow back to the garage. It was during the wait that I met and spoke with some local people, there at the Chevron on the corner of Laverne and Federal Highway in the Lake Worth district.

First, there was a limo driver who pulled in because his car was overheating. He parked and got out, saw my predicament and helped me to push the Jag away from the gas pump where it sat, refusing to restart. While his engine was cooling, he offered to look under the hood of my car, but his investigation failed to turn up anything obvious. I asked if he was from Lake Worth. He said he was and then immediately shifted the subject to the election. “You know, Trump conned us all!” he said, furiously. I nodded but didn’t want to get into a round table political discussion with him. He was obviously hotter than his limo when it came to politics. He probably didn’t hesitate to share his views with his riders. But I was not one of them that day and excused myself to check on the status of the AAA tow truck. Next came two Palm Beach County Sheriff patrol cars. The two drivers parked conspicuously in front of the pumps and walked into an area marked Equipment. That was strange. After an hour they came out with what looked like video cassettes. Seems the close circuit security cameras at the pumps capture a lot of action. I have never been to a Lake Worth gas station after dark unless I am looking for trouble and these sheriff deputies took the videos to see about some recorded trouble. The conversation with one of the officers was brief. “Has the crime level gone down with the virus?” I asked, “with people staying home more?” “Not really,” he replied. “The virus didn’t make any difference here,” he said. “Same amount of violence and crime, with or without a mask, just more of it inside now. Big uptick in domestic violence.” Well, that was discouraging. “Sorry your baby broke down,” he said as they drove away.

I was just finishing the New York Times, sitting out a rain shower in the driver’s seat of my lifeless car, when a young fellow on a moped pulled up next to my door and asked if he could take a picture of the Jag. “Sure” I said. I put on my mask and got out. By the way no one was wearing a mask so far except for me. Not even the sheriff deputies. So, it turned out this fellow was a lawyer who did foreclosures–a robust business apparently in Florida. It seems in Florida a homeowner can stay rent free after foreclosure for two years. They try to pay for the key – a concept common in foreclosures. This fellow recounted his life story, how he relocated from Connecticut to his grandparents’ cottage in Lake Worth and never left. I guess he spends his off time riding about on his scooter talking to people in broken down old Jags and taking pictures. After that I had a few waves from passersby who did a double take when they saw the old Jag, and one young woman who shouted “cute car” above the music blaring from her car speakers. After four hours and two rain showers the tow truck finally pulled into the gas station. Despite the breakdown, the long wait, the rain– I loved every minute of my day and have the old Jag to thank for it.

A New Old Boat

October 2020

At my 80th birthday dinner in New York, Lori and Ted–my friends and neighbors in Maine–said their gift was too big to bring to the party. When I returned to camp last month, I found a vintage 1968 Duratech—a classic aluminum motorboat—moored at my dock. With wooden seats and flooring, its retro style took me right back to my youth out on Irondequoit Bay in Rochester. I had talked about wanting a vintage boat for a while and Lori and Ted had taken note. It was a tremendous surprise, from two close friends. The boat was really the second gift they gave me. The first was three years ago, when they introduced me to the wonders of life on the lake. The Duratech was a new milestone, marking a big birthday, and a new chapter in my life. I could now explore the lakes and waterways of my adopted state of Maine in a boat reminiscent of my youth, and with the benefit of its 9.9 HP engine, seek out distant, yet undiscovered fishing hotspots.

My history with boats isn’t too romantic. I grew up on Lake Ontario in upstate New York, sailing with my best friend Bobby Spector. On Sundays during the summer, he would pick me up in his Chevy Impala convertible. He had an Eagle Daysailer that we would take out on the bay. I was filled with enthusiasm during these outings, but inevitably I would not duck sufficiently and get slammed by the boom coming about. It really was the school of hard knocks because I did learn to sail–at least the rudiments.

I never owned a boat until I moved out to Long Island. By that time I had a family and I immersed myself in the hobby of restoring a Comet sailboat over the winter in a friend’s garage on Three Mile Harbor. It was more an exercise in relaxing after working 10-hour days trying cases and making a living as a young lawyer in the early 1970s. I hired a helper who knew everything about restoring and he guided me along. Admittedly, he did a lot of the work, and I just got my hands dirty, but I put enough into it for bragging rights with friends and colleagues. I test sailed the boat on my own the following spring. Lacking in self-assurance going into the harbor without a motor, I launched the boat and off I went. It was calm starting off and I was able to keep the sail filled. However somewhere near the opening onto Gardeners Bay the rudder snapped off. Without the rudder I had no control and I quickly disabused myself of the notion that I was a competent sailor. There was a boy’s camp across the water and I paddled over to it with the sail down. I went ashore and found some kids swimming. I asked them if they would like my sailboat. They looked at each other and at me with amazement. I suppose I was the first person to come off the water and offer the gift of a free sailboat. Well, that was the end of my Comet experience.

Years later I built a family home on Georgica Pond and was encouraged by a neighbor and friend to buy a Beetle Cat sailboat. That has been a 20-year experience. I sailed the first year and learned what I didn’t know about sailing. I took lessons when no one was on the pond. Eventually I started competing in the local Sunday races. It was a disaster. I would get a good start, sometimes, and always come in last. After years of frustration, I decided, in anticipation of the annual end of the season regatta, to hire a REAL sailor to go with me. I found someone who had the credentials–he had sailed in Newport races. Guess what–we won. When I was asked to come forward to accept the winner’s dish, I thought I heard boos. After that, I gave up competing. The last time I saw the trophy my boat’s name-“Forever”-was still engraved on it. Now I take the Beetle Cat out on the pond with family. Since spending time on East Grand Lake in Maine, I have gravitated toward canoes rather than sailboats, primarily for the fishing. Recently, I took my grandson and his friend out on my new-old birthday motorboat. It was almost like a rollercoaster ride for them. My boating stories going forward will now have the energy of a 9.9 horsepower engine. Thank you, Lori and Ted.

Patti

September 2020

“He’s bringing a woman-friend to camp!” Katie shouted to Greg, over the sound of his power saw. Patti was coming to camp, and it was about time. It had been a bachelor cabin for too long. New linens, cleaned grill, emptied drawers and closets. Not too much fussing, but closer to civilized and and above all, welcoming. Katie admonished Greg to wear a clean t-shirt and pair of shorts for Patti’s arrival. A woman coming to camp marked a new chapter in camp life. This was no ordinary woman. Patti was and is the woman in my life now. We had both been happily married for many years to different spouses and had been friends. We were both widowed within a few years of each other. I was relaxed about her coming and knew she would enjoy the hiking and fishing. Out in the canoe Andy was a charm. He practiced catch and transfer—he caught the fish and delivered the rod to Patti who reeled it in. It was great. Patti didn’t need the help. She soon brought in several bass on her own, with grace and confidence. Lunch on shore was a new experience. The bathroom thing was a bit odd since there are no facilities on the lake shore, but Patti adapted like a gal from Decatur would. It was all fun and non- violent. The biggest shock came later: redecorating the cabin. The time-worn LL Bean-style décor needed a bit of Patti upgrading. During my afternoon nap, Patti and Katie moved the furniture around and stored the unwanted pieces. It all worked out and we are still together. The camp is now woman- friendly and I am happy for it.

Capsized

September 2020

I went swimming in the lake the other day, though not a traditional, voluntary kind of swim. It all started innocently enough, late in the afternoon on a beautiful day. I decided to take the old Grumman aluminum canoe out to fish a nearby cove for brook trout. The cove is tucked between Ted’s and Greg’s camps–it fronts a piece of land they both share and is the site of a freshwater spring that supplies several camps with drinking water. It is secluded and close by–a perfect place to try my luck. I took my three- weight rod along with dry flies in a plastic bag that also held my iphone. I threw a life vest and seat cushion into the canoe and pushed off from the dock. Geige, Patti’s daughter, was paddle boarding with a friend on a distant part of the lake and Patti was resting back at the cabin. The cove was peaceful and quiet, fish wise. After a few casts I changed flies.

The water began to roughen, and the canoe started drifting away from shore. I put down my fly rod and grabbed the paddle, trying to reverse course. Suddenly and without warning the canoe tipped to the right and just like that I slid into the water with a splash that no one heard but me. What a dunk. The water temperature was cool but bearable. My hat stayed on as did my moccasins. When I bobbed up however, the canoe was gone. Treading around I saw the aluminum hunk about 15 to 20 yards off, taken by a gust of wind while I was submerged. I had dropped the paddle when I capsized and could see it drifting away. I called out to Ted who had gone out for a swim earlier. If he was back on shore he may have heard or seen me capsize. No response, so I started swimming toward the canoe with a combination of aggressive doggie paddle and breaststroke, but the current kept me more or less stationary. Both the shore and the canoe felt miles away. I called out for Ted again but still no answer.

I continued paddling in earnest, my hat still on and my mocs heavy with water. The canoe had now moved between me and the shore. I was blocked from the view of anyone who might have seen me out here. I felt a rising panic, but wasn’t out of breath, so continued. The wind settled down and there was a merciful moment of calm during which I was able to progress, finally getting within reach of the canoe. Grasping the gun wales I was flooded with relief and renewed vigor. I considered my options. The life jacket was in the middle of the canoe and reachable if I hoisted myself halfway up the side. I held on with my left hand and reached furiously into the canoe for the life vest. It was only inches away from my fingertips, but I could not lift myself out of the water enough to touch it without capsizing. My thoughts began to race. Could I swim to shore? I could not pull myself into the canoe without tipping it. At the very least I risked losing my fishing rods and iphone. How long before someone noticed I’ve gone AWOL? Seemed no one saw me fall in. I was on the seaward side of the canoe so at a distance it would look like an empty canoe. Wouldn’t that be a red flag if someone noticed it? I yelled out to Ted again a few times but still no response. Kicking hard I tried to move the canoe toward shore. All I accomplished was to tire myself out. I was now between one unoccupied camp to my left and an Air BnB rented by several families to my right who I saw on the dock when I passed by earlier. It was only minutes since I had fallen into the water, but it seemed like hours.

My hands ached from gripping the metal edge. I was stuck in the worst of positions with no control over the drift of the canoe and with no choice but to travel with it and we were moving further into the lake. I tried to stay calm and ready myself for a swim to shore. I kicked off my mocs but made sure my hat was firmly on. It had my name on it in case I didn’t make it. I had no other identification.
At least there was a few hours of light left in the day. Suddenly I heard the engine from a large boat. I couldn’t see it from my position below the hull. “Hold on there,” someone shouted. Then another boat engine to my left. It was Ted powering toward me in his vintage fishing boat. A wave washed over me from the wake created by the two vessels. The vacationers in the Air BnB had seen me splashing around and rushed their trailer and motorboat into the water. Ted was swimming offshore and had heard me calling. He swam back and jumped into his boat. Ted, a former lifeguard, reached down from the stern and pulled me out of the water with one hand, throwing me into his boat. The neighbors collected my paddle. Somehow, they also found my moccasins. I was embarrassed from all the trouble I caused. I know it could have been worse. With a life vest on my back instead of on the floor of the canoe I could have swum to shore and retrieved the canoe later. I have been on sailboats and canoes almost all my life but at the age of 80 I’m still learning lessons from Mother Nature. It was a stressful end to a day that was supposed to finish with a fish on the line instead of a wet behind.

Politics

September 2020

It is Sunday at camp in Maine. After early morning coffee on the dock, I got cleaned up, put on an old Woolrich plaid shirt, and headed to Lincoln for my weekly fix of the New York Times. The computer here is equipped with a fiber-optic connection so I can stay in touch with the office, but I haven’t taken up the habit of reading the news online, and I do not have television. While at my cabin in remote Danforth, just shy of the Canadian border—where isolating from the pandemic was qualitatively no different than any other Tuesday– I am usually a week behind on the news of the day. I disconnect by choice, not just from current events but from most everything else that doesn’t have to do with how the bass are biting. News filters in nonetheless. Greg, the camp caretaker, is bound to give me an earful of information, slanted though it may be through his pro-Trump prism. He proudly displays a MAGA flag on his dock as do many of the visiting campers here, and his truck has a Trump 2020 bumper sticker: Make Liberals Cry Again.

Last year I had an old college friend–a noted cancer physician–up for a visit. He and Greg hit it off, bonding over their enthusiasm for our President. Greg, a high-school graduate, got a kick out of how much he had in common with Doctor Smart. Today, Greg has a new story for me–one that didn’t make the New York Times. Apparently, there was an incident near the border on Route 1, which runs through Washington County up to Forest City–population five, 30 in the summer–a land port of entry between the U.S. and Canada. It is a desolate stretch of road and a low-volume crossing. Word in Danforth was that a woman was seen on foot heading north on the highway and she was carrying an infant. She would have had to take a bus to get as far as she had and was dropped off near to where she was spotted. A non-white woman walking on Route 1 was apparently cause for great alarm, so a concerned citizen reported her to the authorities. When she was picked up she had no ID, and was promptly taken to the Homeland Security facility in Forest City, where she was detained and questioned, admitting she was illegal and trying to reach Canada. The level of security assembled to protect America from this poor, tired mother attempting to flee to Canada was impressive. According to Greg’s inside source, she was given the third degree and made to respect the power of a government bureaucrat. Eventually, someone in command decided there was no reason to prevent her and her infant child from crossing the border without a US passport since, having contacted their Canadian counterpart, it was determined the Canadians were happy to have her. Greg delighted in the efficiency of our border control system in removing this competitor for American jobs and future welfare recipient. This year, despite the flapping Trump flags out on the water, there are rumors the state of Maine may go Blue down the line. Maybe the last few months have been too much even for some of Trump’s people. There will be a few unhappy locals, and maybe the Trump flags on the lake will be taken down and stored appropriately. At least the wildlife here is apolitical. I can mouth off to the birds and fish all I want, and no one disagrees.

William

September 2020

This past week I spent some time at Camp with my grandson, Billy, and his friend, Syd. The boys are 10 and nine respectively. Of course, they were accompanied by their moms– city women who are usually wrapped up in their executive careers and never more than a few inches away from their phones. But I knew they would all relish camp life for a few days. My daughter, Brooke, has joined me on camping trips from the time she was very little. When she was a teenager, we explored the Bob Marshall Wilderness area in Montana on horseback and during summers spent weeks in the Adirondacks. An especially exotic trip was to Iceland, fishing and traversing the barren, majestic landscapes. She is my co-adventurer. But this trip this week would really be about the kids.

Billy is more like his dad who is a great guy and father but who likes the home fires a bit more than the campfires. I wanted Billy to open up and experience for himself the kind of connection to nature that has brought me so much joy over the years. I sensed he was starting to lean distinctly toward the campfire team after we made a batch of sticky and delicious s’mores the first night. And that was just the beginning. The next morning, we had a 6:00am wake up call for fishing with Andy and Greg, both local friends and expert anglers—Andy is a guide at Wheatons. The boys had barely slept off their s’mores when I rustled them out of bed. They were groggy and less than enthusiastic at that hour. But with the first tug on a rod the excitement level went to an eleven on a scale of ten. They had some run of luck catching small-mouthed bass that day. Needless to say, they were “hooked.”

The next morning, Syd beat me to the dock at 6:00 am followed by Billy at 6:30 and that would set the reveille pattern for the rest of the week. I could barely get a cup of coffee to my lips before they started in about straightening out the rods from the day before. After breakfast we fished from the dock, but the fish knew to swim out beyond their casts. There were some long faces, but their moods brightened when I said we were going out on the water in the canoe. It was good preparation for the next day fishing out on Spednic Lake, which would be their best fishing day of the week. The perch were down deep but abundant and between them the boys caught 25. I took them to Baskehegan Lake the following day, and though the catch was smaller, their enthusiasm for the sport was undimmed. They must have slept soundly and blissfully each night, dreaming about “fishin’ and catchin’” – Andy’s turn of phrase. We finished out the week with a ride on my new-old boat—an aluminum ’68 Duratec. The 8.5 horsepower motor was underperforming but the experience for the kids was like a coaster ride. We idled the boat and trolled for a while but caught nothing. They loved it anyway.

Seeing camp through their eyes is like stargazing. When I look up at the night sky from the dock, it seems there are ever more stars to behold and it fills me with an almost child-like wonder. Out here there is no manmade light to compete with or diminish the glimmer of those distant celestial bodies, just the remains of some glowing embers from the pit fire. For the boys, each day here was one of endless discovery. I asked Billy “What was the best part of your time at camp?” He said, without missing a beat, “Catching more fish than Syd!”