Greasy Lake “Greasy Lake” by T. Coraghessan Boyle is a story about a 19 year old young boy, the narrator, who learns that his bad boy image is just an image. Describing himself and his friends, Digby and Jeff, as “dangerous characters” (Boyle 77), he soon realizes that he may not be ready for such a title. Out with his friends one summer night, the narrator, Digby and Jeff head to Greasy Lake in hopes of getting into some type of “adventure” (Boyle 78). Thinking that they have spotted their friends car on Greasy Lake they attempt to play a joke on him and his girl. Once the young boys approach the car they soon realize that the car belongs to some other “bad greasy character” (Boyle 78).
With more than half of the world's population now living in urban areas compared to less than 40% in 1990, But still people want to spend their vacation at natural relaxing places. Wisconsin Dells may be known as "The Waterpark Capital Of the World!", but world famous indoor watermarks aren't only reason to visit there are scenic tours and thrilling attractions also. How to get there Fly Fly to Milwaukee or Madison and rent a car to drive Dells.
The view from the road of the lake during the afternoon in a quiet town gives the reader a sense of solitariness. The narrator describes that “Norman Bowker followed the tar road on its seven-mile loop around the lake, then he started all over again, driving slowly, feeling safe inside his father's big Chevy, now and then looking out on the lake to watch the boats and water-skiers and scenery” (O’Brien, 137). He feels safe in his car, silently protected from the terrors of the world. At the same time, though, it is beautiful and peaceful as he watches the scenery. Bowker drives for quite a long time.
The fog over the lake was enough to make any skilled sailor turn around, but Heather and Jane moved further away from the marina with every stroke of the oar. There was a slight breeze in the early morning air. "It sure is a nice day for relaxation," Jane chirped. Heather 's head nodded I agreement. They were several hundred yards away from shore, out in the calm water.
Scattered around his yard and piled in a semi organized manner in his garage are almost every conceivable piece of useful junk ever manufactured. A labyrinth of motors from dead drills, screwdrivers, yards of wire, scrap pieces of metals, saws, brushes, knives, wrenches, welding equipment, oil, nuts and bolts, pieces of scrap wood, doohickies, wazzlebits, and a multitude of unidentifiable things cover almost every space. His yard has over thirty boats, as small as a dingy all the way up to the size of a one-hundred foot yacht are parked in the water or grass. Steve Barton’s love of the sea and marine vessels has had a ruinous effect on his home away from home, his house. Barton’s house seems like it should be condemned or burned down since it has questionable safety standards.
Every year, my family goes on a snowmobile trip with my friend Aftyn’s family in Spearfish, South Dakota. About two years ago, we drove out for our trip as usual. The first day was super fun. We stopped at Four Corners, a fun hill to climb, and we did lots of racing. The second day was a little more eventful.
Journal Entry (Grandparent’s Lake House) The water was usually dark, but there was something about this particular night that made it glisten and sparkle just a little more then on other given days. Perhaps it was the bright full moon that seemed to brighten up the night sky creating a serene aura that gently embraced anything that was touched by it. The docks were empty, the desolate lake appeared to be like a ghost town, except for the boats that were parked next to them that swayed back and forth as if in rhythm with the soft breeze of the late night.
The problem with Lake Erie is that it is infested with this toxic algae making it hard for the people of Toledo to drink it. The causes of the bacteria didn’t start in Toledo. It stated hundreds of miles from Toledo. The algae are fed by natural and commercial fertilizers from the watersheds, farms, livestocks, and city sewers. All of the waste from those sources form in the shallowest part of Lake Erie, and when the water warms the bacteria spreads.
I started my life in Lino Lakes. A cute little suburban town, just north of the twin cities. The streets are lined with houses of varying sizes. My house fell in the middle, it fit my family perfectly. My house consisted of two floors, with 3 bedrooms.
With most of the area covered with grass and mud, the best way to see hard to reach places is through an airboat, as the boat moves through a fan rather than a
Kiefer and I looked at each other confused when we realized a boat was zooming toward us. In a panic, we attempt to scramble out of the way because since the bottom of the seadoo was black, a ship wouldn’t be able to see us and potentially chop us into bits. Since we couldn’t move the seadoo fast enough, we had to profusely wave our hands back and forth for the boat to see us. It looked like the boat was heading our direction, full speed ahead, when last second it swings around us, avoiding us by a thread, and then proceeds. The only remains of that experience were the four-foot waves that swamped us and the seadoo, once
Oh my gosh why are they dumping trash in Lake Erie! Did you know that in the 1960’s Lake Erie had an algae problem like it does now. “By the 1960s, Lake Erie had become extremely polluted” (Michael Rotman). In the 1960’s Lake Erie was heavily polluted by industrial pollution from Cleveland and other cities with large or small industries.
My parent’s cabin on Shell Lake in Wisconsin is my happy place. Though the entire cabin experience is wonderful, my favorite times are when I sneak to the shore where I plop a plastic Adirondack right where the sand and the lake meet. With a book in one hand and a full, warm cup of coffee in the other, I twitter my toes under the tiny waves. Brrrrrrrrrrrrrr, a pontoon full of elderly men and women, wearing sun-faded fishing caps trolls by, sending a phase of waves lapping at my ankles. Though we are strangers, I smile and wave as they putter along on their mid-morning tour.
Smooth, oval rocks lined the bank of the secretive lake. Discarded and neglected; overlaid with spongy moss and choked by fallen, decaying leaves from the unclothed and withering trees above. As the lake swelled around the ashen boulders, icy, black water lifelessly lapped against the long, thin beams of wood holding up a rickety pier. The structure was covered in splinters and ragged, iron nails, and as it reached out into the centre of the sombre lake, it became more and more distant. Half-cut beams lined the sides of the pier, as nettle patches hissed from the shore when the water drew too near.
“What a great day for a boat ride,” I thought to myself. It is a cozy warm, shorts and short sleeve shirt day at the time that people are arriving onto the big bulky catamaran. The sky is light blue with some dainty see-through clouds and a slight warm western breeze. I am located on one of the tropical islands of Hawaii, Kauai. The glossy white surface of the boat is blinding because of the reflection from the early evening sun.
