Having listened to AC/DC do “Thunderstruck” 12 straight times, I reach the proper mental zone to enter the water.
“ABORT! ABORT!!”
“Hey, Al Gore, that glacier that just melted? I found it. It’s up my shorts!!”
I have my own private swimming pool.
Head out the back door, go across the street, navigate the Hill O’ Death, while trying not to lose your trusty walking staff, Sir Reginald of Chutney, Jr. — Reginald, Sr. fell a very long way down a rocky cliff last summer — and presto, a chunk of salty, cold, unforgiving water known as Penn Cove.
So, remember, next time you eat mussels, they’re harvested from my bath tub.
In three years, I have seen a handful of beach walkers navigating the rocky, mussel and barnacle-strewn landscape, and a couple of kayakers.
NEVER, EVER, EEEEEEEVVVVVVVVVVEEEEEEEEEERRRRRRR have I seen another person in the water, so that extra bit of taste in your mussels … all me, baby!!
Delightful…
Coupeville Sports 
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