When I was young, my family owned a cottage on a lake. From a young age, I loved to head out in our little motorboat so I could explore that lake and the others that were connected to it. I could easily make a day out of slipping into little inlets to see where they led or mooring on tiny islands to see what I could find. I was never more free than when I was all by myself, zipping around Indian Lake in a little aluminum boat.
As I explored new areas, I knew to look out for buoys. Sometimes these were big and serious ones installed by whatever government department is responsible for such matters. More often, though, they were simple plastic bleach bottles or rubber balls that had been informally anchored to the lake floor. And while I didn’t know who had placed each of those buoys, I knew what they represented: Danger. Each one marked a spot where at one time a boat had struck a shoal that was hidden just under the surface of the water or a tree jutting upward and now able to pierce a hull. Each one
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