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10

Not long after the familiar "All ashore that's going ashore," we were out in the river again steaming north. We soon passed Belle Isle Park, which impressed us as a beautiful development and on reclaimed land. A huge "file of stacks" reared blackly on a Detroit Edison generating station along the river. Factories were everywhere. We passed many huge freighters moored at piers and taking on new automobiles by the thousands. The American shore was a bustle of industry while the Canadian side was very quiet by contrast. We passed luxurious Grosse Point Yacht Club and soon were crossing Lake St. Clair. In spite of it's being a beautiful clear day, to my surprise I discovered that Lake St. Clair was big enough so that it was sometimes either difficult or even impossible to see the eastern shore. We sailed northeast across the smooth blue lake toward the mouth of the St. Clair River at which stands the Old Club, now so familiar to us. As we passed it that day, I doubt if we paid much if any attention to it. However, we were much impressed by the St. Clair Flats without knowing them by name. We can remember yet passing up the lovely river and admiring the well-tended summer colony extending along its American shore all the way from Lake St. Clair to Port Huron. We passed Ivy Bridge, the Gibson cottage, without realizing thateighteen years hence, we'd start being regular visitors there. I can still see the many people out along the shore to watch the SOUTH AMERICAN steam by, for she was a good-looking ship, immaculately white beneath her two colorful yellow-orange-and-black stacks and with good lines--she was a favorite of the occupants of St. Clair Flats. It could well be that we saw Ruth and Linc Gibson for the first time that day as we stood on deck and surveyed the shore--also Dot and Chub Maize. It hadn't occurred to me but possibly Rog saw Joanie for the first time but at age four, it is scarcely likely that it passed through his mind that he would marry that cute little girl at Ivy Bridge some eighteen years later. Having passed the now familiar towns of Sans Souci, Algonac, St. Clair and finally Port Huron, we sailed out onto the deep and far-flung waters of Lake Huron and set our course for the Main Channel entering Georgian Bay, some 160 miles almost due north.

To go back a little, I judge we left Detroit around noon, had lunch, and then Rog probably took his nap. At any rate, I find that as we were heading across Lake St. Clair, I went up on the sundeck to watch the scenery while reclining on a deckchair. As I've mentioned, this was between the bridge and the funnels and was high above the rest of the ship. The sun was blazing down and I was thoroughly enjoying the whole broad sweep of water and sky. While thus occupied, two girls arrived from belowdecks and sat down in the two chairs beside me. The girl next to me I don't remember much about nor did I even a short while after the cruise when I wrote the memo I'm now referring to. But the girl in the chair beyond her, I don't believe I'll ever forget entirely because she proved to be one

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