The month of June was sullen and mute, a depressed relative at the dinner table, forcing smiles. The lake was such an anxious grey that even the boatpeople wanted nothing to do with it and spent their hours in contemplation of their miniature television sets, wishing they lived in Malibu or on Gilligan’s Island. Once, in the afternoon, there was a sunny break and the maître d’ on the Moby Dick floating restaurant played hula music over the p.a. system. But only for a moment. Then the sun was smudged-out by clouds and the maître d’ was embarrassed by the rubbery ukulele and turned the volume down. Then off. There were only the sounds of water, televisions, a laundry line, a sail rigging vaguely clattering as it was pulled. The lake wished it were Caribbean blue. The seagulls wished they were poetry professors. The boatpeople wished they were debutantes and woodsmen. The clouds wished they were mountains. The sun wished it were a concerto. The green buoys wished they were islands, and the red, sirens. The Canadian flag wished it were a parachute, and the jib sail, a teepee. The pier wished it were Corsica. The bigger fish wished they were propeller blades, while the little fish wished they were bubbles. The waves wished they were wild horses. The little boy wished he were a fisherman and the fisherman wished he were a bullfighter. So it was in sullen June while the boatpeople waited for July.