In a few minutes we were heavy with the heat. We ran out and down the rock into the lake. There was thrashing, washing, giddy jubilation. "I hope I burn a fish," said The Saint.
Then, quickly cooling, we tried to get out. There was a hush. "Uh-oh," said Sven.
The rock was steep and slick with algae. We kept sliding back. Streetlight solved that by breaking his fingernails as he frantically scraped a trail. "I was thinking it would be a cold swim around the point to the canoes," said Sven.
At last we stood around the dying fire, burnished and tousled. The next morning, departing, we would look at what remained of our structure and wonder whether subsequent voyageurs would be able to identify its function from its bones of birch poles, its triangle of logs holding a pile of darkened stones, the claw marks in the lakeshore silt. Then it seemed to confirm that even with this rude method, we were technological men, rightly confined by wilderness rules to simple projects.
But as we passed the Scotch and reached to touch the still-hot stones, we had a feeling of triumph. Our unnamed member at last spoke. He regarded the fire, the treacherous slope and the whisky. "No question." he intoned. "We are on Steamy, Slippery and Soused Island."
Call him Triple S.