The tourists have invaded.
Or at least, the pseudo-tourists have invaded.
Normally at this time of year, our beloved Island is flooded with RVs and trailers with license plates from Oregon, Washington, and from some as far away as Arizona and Idaho. (I saw a truck with no licence plate once. From the amount of rust and the gun rack, I assumed they were from Kentucky.)
This year, it's all people from the Island and other parts of B.C.
The sad part?
Instead of tanned beauties from California sunning themselves by the river, we get whale carcases from Royston who have not learned that a tube top does have a breaking point.
I know in some magazines they tell women that wrapping a sarong around their hips is fashionable and will make them appear slimmer, but there is only so much fabric in the world, and what they have around their waist is enough to make a small tent city. It must be manufactured fabric, because a billion silkworms slaving a billion hours could only cover one-fourth of the area needed for some of these people.
You can't expect me not to look; I view some of these individuals the way I do a car wreck. I know there is a human body in there somewhere, it's just hidden by all the carnage.
There are some sunny points, but they are few and far between. I feel for some of the pretty ones. We have a couple of guys who start drooling and panting the minute they see something pretty in a bikini. But when all you see for most of the day is the after effects of gross childhood obesity, any relief is welcome.
But without the tourists, life would be pretty boring, and they couldn't afford to pay me the big bucks like they do. So I welcome them with open arms, at least for the next couple of weeks.
The ones I can get my arms around, that is.