Thursday, June 18, 2009
Wild bees had made a nest under the seat of my rowboat in the styroform float. They had hollowed out a home in the styrofoam which was not accessible to sprays since it was hidden from view, and they weren't too pleased to see a face near their home. The boat sits on a ramp down to the beach. Our property is for sale, and I didn't want a PP (putative purchaser) to get stung, at least by insects. I elected to drown them because I knew no other safe way to get rid of them. Access prevented spraying and I didn't want to burn my boat seat. I hate doing this to bees. It's so contrary to Mother Nature's grand design. My son-in-law and I manoevered the boat at gingerly intervals onto the beach. We pulled it down a foot or two and then ran away when the angry bees looked around for the enemy. Pulling and scattering eventually got the boat off the ramp and on to the beach and relatively level so it could be filled completely.We then filled the boat with water from the hose. The tide came in but thankfully it was calm. I went down in the evening to see the results. All the day time foragers were back, and were angry and hanging around the ramp. I couldn't ramp the boat up since it was full of water and they wouldn't let me near the ramp or boat, so I, in securing it for a further tide, was stung and fell over on the beach. No problem. The following morning I was going to work and searched high and low for my cell phone. I'm never without it. I phoned myself in various locations. No luck. I finally went down to the beach where I fell. There it was, lying on a pile of seaweed. It had rained that night. I was sure it was trash. Then it rang. The pianist was calling me. This whole epistle sounds like an episode with the Keystone Cops at work. They always seemed to get their man the hard way!