Missing

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                                                                                                                                      Lost Boys Six                                                                       

The First Forty Eight©

Thirty six hours into the missing children report, a ‘search theatre’ began. ‘Massive’ search meant local citizens used their boats or their dog walks to look for the boys.  The RCMP site

only lists three of the boys:  Mattie, Marty, and Dave. Where are the other three boys? They were not found. Why are they not on the police list?

Circumstances of Disappearance

James Johnson, Marty Reardon, Jeremy Weber, Michael Smith, Jason Harrison and David Leforet, were last seen walking together towards the Basseting Marina in Basseting Ontario, on

March 17, 1995.

Witnesses and evidence suggest that after some spring break partying and drinking, the teenage boys went down to the beach looking for adventure. Once there, they may have stolen

a four-meter imitation Boston Whaler motorboat and a three-wheeled paddle boat from separate marinas on Frenchman's Bay. Then, it's believed, they headed out for a joyride on the

cold, icy waters of the lake without lifejackets. Before they left at around 12:50 a.m. on Friday, the boys told a friend they were going to "goof around" on a boat.

At 1:48 a.m., a surveillance camera caught four of the boys entering the Marina.

Between 2:30 and 3 a.m., some marina residents heard a motor boat out on the lake. The next morning, two boats were reported stolen from two marinas.

The police believe the boats capsized and hypothermia gripped the boys within minutes. The boys were first reported missing by worried girlfriends on Friday, but police did not treat

their concerns seriously until Saturday afternoon, when they connected the boys to the missing boats.

By 2 p.m. Saturday - 36 hours after the boys were last seen - a massive search was underway. Local police were joined by provincial police marine unit, the Coast Guard, Hercules C-130

aircraft and a helicopter from the air-sea rescue unit at Canadian Forces Base Trenton. They found nothing. Thousands of volunteers from across southern Ontario then joined the hunt.

But no bodies. No boats. No pieces of clothing. The only item found on the lake was a gas can belonging to the 4-metre Boston Whaler.

Investigators:

if you have any information concerning this case, please contact:

The Royal Canadian Mounted Police

877-318-3576

NCIC

Number: Case Number: 9600028-Lost Boys Six ©

Detective Mike Sheldon pulled up on the scene of the disappearances March 18, 1995.

It was cold and cloudy and he noticed the direction and velocity of the wind, the choppiness of the lake. The night before had been clear and calm.

 Mike knew some of the parents from some of their sons’, pettier crimes. Girlfriends hugged on the shore chain smoking and avoiding the camera crew.

Sheldon approached the adults he knew slowly so that they saw him coming. After all they were the victims this time.  So nobody seemed to care that he was there. He pulled out his

notepad as a gesture of, “okay folks let’s get underway”.  

Sheldon knew that if you have been the victim of a crime, perception of crime may affect how your criminal investigation proceeds.  These parents and the girlfriends of the boys are

wary of police from past experiences. Since they figured their sons and boyfriends would be back soon from this grand theft, they contributed very little to the entries in Mike’s

notepad.

When the marina owner finally arrives on the scene he is hysterical and longwinded in the details he is giving Mike. Apparently his insurance deductible skyrocketed on account of the

past boat thefts and damages.

The boys had been stealing expensive boats and rifling through other craft, for liquor, CDs and cigarettes for months. Now it was official who those criminals were. 

Because of their defensiveness, the loved ones stood in tiny circles of three or four mumbling and murmuring to each other and excluding Sheldon. His hackles were starting to rise.

They truly expected the boys or some of them to come back, soaking wet but alive, at any minute.

Mike anticipated that too.  But the criminals might be victims here. Their loved ones denied that they were either of these.

Treachery thy name is Roy Boy

Roy was born and raised on the lake, has been left lots of money, but it is doled out, as trusts so often are.  He does not have to work but unhappiness with his life keeps Roy an

unmarried hermit wearing his father's old clothes and neglecting upkeep on one of the century houses his parents owned, and have left him to live in. He seldom bathes or washes his

hair but he reckons the creek keeps him clean enough. He has a mechanic license and is able to fix any broken down motor at the marina at the mouth of Eleven Mile Creek New York. 

His greater family’s mansion and estate are now a museum eleven miles from the mouth of Lake Mento, along the same creek.

On weekends Roy meets up with a militia group who 'murder' each other with paint balls and play Para-military games. He is a member of a New York State Militia and owns many guns

Roy Blankley is a six generation New York State resident whose great great grandfather was an old time circuit judge. Their family estate is 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.

The third of five sons, Roy 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 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.

                                                                                                                                                             ~

A speedboat with keys and a full tank does not look like a 'set up', to the our boys, at the time.  

"Ahoy, 'sup?" Roy’s 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 alright'.

Roy Boy says that he is part of coast guard practise manoeuvres that haven't started yet. He would be happy to tow us back but his blow-up boat's outboard motor cannot handle the

Whaler’s weight drag. Can we all pile on the paddle boat and be towed in behind him? Since a couple of us are wet, he will get the Boston Whaler later after dropping us back at

the marina. We cannot believe our luck. He tosses six life jackets and we hop on the paddle boat.

 All of a sudden, in a hard hurry, Roy accelerates the Zeppelin's motor and we six skip like stones in six directions into Lake Mento.  Mattie, Jeremy, Marty, Dave, Jason and me. Jason and

I fall in closer to shore and can touch bottom. A millennium’s worth of crud and algae is slippery under our running shoes. We fail time after time to catch grip and we re-tumble into

thawed lake water.  Jeremy perishes first because he is frost bitten for hours from being wet in the March night. After the paddle boat ride, and the shock of the March arctic

temperatures, Marty finishes struggling and dies.   Roy locates the six barrels anchored a few metres away from the death scene. He tows him into a circle around the death site.

Mattie and Dave cling to each other, dying in each other’s arms.   Jason and I beg Roy to see things another way before it is too late for us. But Roy just circles the six barrels in that ‘c’

shape around us. He sweeps up the younger dead boys, one by one, with the boat’s grappling hook, whistling, ’Blow The Man Down,’ under his breath.                                                                                                                                                                               

                                                                                                                                                                          ~

One after another, Roy removes the boy’s life jacket from each body and packs it in a barrel. Without sealing any of the barrels, Roy leaves enough air in each one, to make for easy

towing. Roy is underway in less than twenty minutes, towing six barrels, semi-opened barrels, with his blow-up boat. Using a depth finder Roy finds the eight hundred foot bottom of

Lake Mento. This site is close to the mouth of Eleven Mile Creek, and therefore situated, on his way home.   Before going too far, Roy stops to use the other one of the two Boston

Whaler gas cans from the speedboat, to re-fuel the Zeppelin. Before he re-starts its motor, he checks the dinghy’s depth metre again. Deep enough.

Roy figures the Canadian authorities will not start searching until dawn. It is four thirty a.m. Re-starting the Zeppelin, he quietly tows the Boston Whaler into Blankley Bay and up twelve

mile creek toward his circuit judge relative’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 has left his truck several hours earlier, he debarks the Zeppelin, deflates it and stuffs it on the truck. He leaves the Whaler to deal

with later. Roy wears a protective wet suit, and watches lake water fill over the head of each dead boy. Then he seals their barrel. Then he sinks each of the six, one after the other.

                                                                                                                                        ~

Roy resented, “those little bastards,” stealing and messing with his friends’ property week after week. His family’s marinas, on either side of the lake, were both once more secure to his

way of thinking. And now, except for some possible seepage from a few of barrels, eight hundred feet down, he is safe forever too!

Some of the parents believe their sons are working off drug debt in Mexico. Gangland debtors are found in the woods, tied to trees, shot in the head, not working off debts in Mexico. Inevitably, parents turned against each other, blaming one another. Lack of cohesiveness among them worked against them with the police. 

For homicide detectives, the clock starts ticking the moment they are called. Their chance of solving a case is cut in half if they don't get a lead in THE FIRST 48™. Each passing hour gives suspects more time to flee, witnesses more time to forget what they saw, and crucial evidence more time to be lost forever.

 Roy’s final act is to pull the Boston Whaler up eleven mile creek, away from the Winston New York marina, and into a boathouse on his own property, by 6:30 a.m.  March 18^th, 1995.   By

2 p.m. Saturday – March 19, 1995, 36 hours after the boys were last seen - a massive (sic) search was underway. Local police were joined by provincial police marine unit,and the Coast

Guard.  A Hercules C-130 aircraft and a helicopter from the air-sea rescue unit at Canadian Forces Base Trenton. They found nothing. Thousands of volunteers from across southern

Ontario then joined the hunt. But no bodies. No boats. No pieces of clothing. The only item found on the lake was a gas can belonging to the 4-metre Boston Whaler.

       

                                                                                                                                         ~

The most puzzling factor in this mystery to me is that fact that heat seeking technology was available on the Hercules aircraft that was deployed to look for the teens but was not used

during the search.  We know six bodies having recently died would have still radiated heat.  I also read on a report that the sunken paddle boat was seen from the air.  Why were divers

not ordered to have a look below it?  Where these kids deemed not worth it? 

When I talked to the only officer connected to this case still on the force, he asked me, “have you talked to the parents?"  I have not but I coincidentally met a friend of the boys who

almost went with them that night.  He reported to me that the evening of March 17, 1995 was clear and all the stars were shining bright.  He was very tempted to go but decided against

it for some reason that he cannot recall now. 

Yesterday, while shopping, a woman asked me to contribute money to a "missing children" charity.  "There are 80,000 missing or exploited children," her pitch went” Yeah, I quipped

back at her as I drifted by," I know six of them." "Oh dear", she replied, and continued counted donations.

Sorry for the slight bit of repetition

      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.

An innocuous looking strand of something or other, is winding its way to the water surface. To a 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 alone!  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.

Sounds gross to you maybe for me to exploit poor old Dave:  his ma’s Chevy still sitting in her driveway since the morning the cops towed it back to their trailer.

It’s not the ‘eight mile’ kind of trailer park trailer.   She pulled a double-wide onto her dad’s property down there by the lake, in 1983.  Dave was only four.

His Mom cleans, afternoon shift, at the same psych hospital Jason was admitted to last year.  But his grandma died when he was 12.  Lots of free time.  Dave was voted ‘mostly likely to open his 2 litre bottle, two hours before supper,  “in order to let it breathe.” 

Its probably best if a mother has the time to help us wipe or blow that snot that runs down our nose after a ‘pick-up’ game of any kind.  Davey’s mom couldn’t afford that luxury.  When her marriage broke up she moved home with Daddy and had been there ever since.  Yeah, now that I think of it, get that snot off your kid’s face anytime you can.  By grade nine it was up to Dave’s elbows.  Same jacket too.  If you’re thinking, “eeeeeeeeeeeeeewwwww” right now, you’re judging.

Dave’s grandfather spoiled him.  I think that’s why he misses Canada so much.

                                                                            ~

 Now the other one, his buddy Jeremy: dumb as a bag of rocks.  He was a hanger on.  Dave let him practically live at his grandpa’s house.  Dave kept Jeremy off the bag of rock.  He kept him from trying anything stronger than pot, in fact. 

 Jeremy had that old Eddie Haskell charm adults like so much. He got a lot nookie like that. Can’t argue with success.

He liked to get air time on his skateboard.  He said it wasn’t the fall that killed ya as much as that sudden drop to the pavement.  We all know kids like J.    Teachers call them the “between the cracks children”.  Then some of them pull a face.  Most of them make a mental note; in case they get him or any of his siblings on a class list sometime.

Jason was like that too.  So much so that he ended up in one of behaviour classes after the psych break down.  Which is pretty funny since in those days we used to grab our balls, cross our eyes and say ‘p-s-y—c-h “ like kids say “duhhhhh” these days.  Maybe it’s not so funny, now that I think of it. 

J. talked about his time at the hospital. The one were Dave’s mother worked.  We like to get him going by saying stuff like, “euuuuu, I hear they have one whole room dedicated to, ‘veg-tab-les.’”

Just me

Funny thing about being young, you see exactly what aging si gomg to do you and yet you don't commit suicide. All least most of us don't.

Lost Boys Six

     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, “Don’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 ‘death’ 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, ‘discretion', my eyes involuntarily roll back in my head. Administrators consider that type of, ‘rolling the eye movement as, ‘attitude', 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.

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Jason At the Loony Bin cont'd

      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 Matty, as the youngest, got the worst of our rough stuff.
     After Jason was released with some medication, we took it all together that night with a bottle of  'Jack'  Bobbie stole.   That was the night of the March seventeenth, 1995. 

Jason At the Loony Bin

     Jason arrived with a full and perfect Mohawk hair style.  He used soap from the washroom to make it stick up way high.  Noticing that their was only one hair not in 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 pronouncemant during a math assignment.  Professionals at the observation unit met every morning and so she was obligated to share this.  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 new Jason.  A student in her behavior class, at a local school, a couple of years ago, Jason distiguished himself with 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 and we both did.
      Jason's demons were bubbling just under the surface and his temper was legendary.  Inspite of dispising his mother, he would defend her to the death if anyone said, "your mother".   This contradiction drove him even more 'crazy' and after the Seamore chic dumped him he finally cracked and drove off the pier in the next port town.  Pretty bumped up, he survived and go two weeks observation for his stupidity.