I am in between projects - making a mask for the coming zombie walk, and drinking a poppy seed infusion, since one requires the other. While I down 8L's of the tea, let me tell you all about the fateful day when I was 9 (I think), when I found a drowned guy. It was on the last day of the local fishing derby, something I cared little about. But, loving boats, I went out onto the water with my dirt-poor best friend and his booze-soaked, dysfunctional family. While we lazed along in my friend's boat over the polluted lake in a slow trawl, I got bored so I decided to stare out over the side. The body of water that we were on was the terminus of local rivers which flowed down through miles of ranch land, through various small towns and cities and culminated in a vile cesspool that was known as Savona lake. Rife with pollutants and various bits of debris, the lake was shockingly deep and even held many mysteries which became local urban lore. (Later in my life, my friends and I would come to term the entire body of water as 'the Styx,' because it was very common to find corpses floating in it - usually the bloated corpses of horses and cattle, but from time to time, of human suicide and accidental deaths.) Despite knowing the nature of the lake it still came as a shock to me, my friend, and his parents when we discovered the body. As I had been staring off the side of the boat, I was the first to see the white thing float upward from the murk - probably from the turbulence of the motor as it churned lazily just under the surface. It rose up, unassumingly, bobbing, as debris was prone to do and so I paid no heed to it, until the white (of an old T-shirt) caught my attention. Quickly, the junk began to assume a more sinister, frightening shape: that of a roughly human form... As the corpse rose from the gross and bitter blackness of the deep, I took in more and more of its grisly appearance: the hair, which at first I mistook for ragged weeds, and then the most striking feature - the husk's old bathtub skin, that hung loosely to the worm-bitten bones. Aghast, I howled, lurching backwards into the safety of the centre of the boat. I kept howling, warning everyone that there was something over the side of the boat. My pal's dad was the first to stumble to the side. But he saw nothing. "Probably fucking driftwood," he said [approximately] . "You're scaring the fish away - shut up." He was a moronic drunk- at best he could see maybe two-feet away. Kevin, my buddy, moved to the stern, then he shouted something like, "there it is!" We all then flocked to the stern, and, sure enough, there was the corpse floating very near the surface of the water about a meter from where I had first spotted it, just under just a few inches of water as it bobbed only partially obscured by the murk, framed by the queer darkness below; the way that it had surfaced and then vanished; the corpse simply faded away, back into the petulant blackness of the world below the waves. It seemed to move by its own volition - leaving us stunned, to second-guess what we had seen. It could move through that ink. (The rush I got from finding it has chemically etched this moment into my brain and my nerves, forever.) We headed back to shore and phoned the cops, who arrived later that day (so not to disrupt the final day of the derby and cause a scene, I guess). The cops brought along their dive team and nets. Sure enough, it was later reported by the RCMP that the remains of a man who had committed suicide. A bridge jumper. To this day, the worst thing about those waters is not the pollution: it's the sheer number of times dead men have been found, to be pulled like fishes from the cold mountain waters. Perhaps, down in the jumbled currants of the lake Styx, drowned men ride skeletal horses.