Tugboat Roundup - Day 92: East side of Erie Canal to west side of Erie Canal, Waterton, NY

Everyone I spoke with yesterday was abuzz about the imminent Tugboat Roundup, so even with my recent lack of social energy, I had to stay and see what the fuss was about. I moved my camp across the canal to make room for vendor tents, took a shower in the welcome center, got stung by a bee immediately on exiting the shower, and hung around until the tugboat parade was supposed to start. Then I continued hanging around for another couple hours until it actually did start. Tugboats aren't built for speed, I suppose.

When it finally arrived, the tugboat procession was heralded by celebratory sprays from fireboats, assumedly in a display of utility-boat solidarity. More than a century of tugboat technology was represented. Familiar shapes reminiscent of Thomas the Tugboat, like an elf shoe with an upturned toe, represented the modern era. The old guard was represented by flatter barge-pushers like the flagship Grand Erie, which later served as a stage for live music. The larger boats proceeded in an orderly queue, tying up one by one in front of the visitor's center as the vessels and captains were announced via loudspeaker. Much more interesting to me, however, was the small flotilla of "minitugs" that zipped lawlessly among them.

As once stated in the webcomic XKCD, "Human cultures are nested fractally. There is no bottom." Accordingly, not only is there a faction of tugboat enthusiasts within the larger boating community, there is a division of tugboat lovers dedicated to building and piloting fully functional miniature tugs. I'm sure I could've had many long conversations about the categories, trends, and scandals within the world of minitugs if I wanted to dig even deeper, but I was content to just watch them zip around like unruly children. One boat was particularly comfortable flouting no-wake restrictions, doing donuts and generally harassing the larger boats like an overly-energetic border collie at a dog park. I decided that one was my favorite.

While the boats came in, I talked with a self-identified traveler woman who described her own solo adventures back in the 70's, and how the world had gotten far too dangerous for her to attempt something like that now. I listened attentively, but I don't think the statistics support her lament. On the whole, we're far safer now than we were then, even if the news has become better at finding and spreading reasons to be afraid.

Once it got dark, I wandered around town by foot until I found a bar named the Angry Penguin and decided to find the story behind its name. Instead, I got an extensive description of an ongoing struggle with the property owner about building maintenance. One wall was lined with stout steel I-beams, apparently installed after half the building fell down. They were painted bright red to match the color scheme of the bar -- perhaps red signifies the penguin's rage? -- and I got the impression that though they held the building together, they were mostly prized as a monument to the massive I-told-you-so moment that followed the building's collapse.

A nice older couple of tugboat enthusiasts insisted that I try the famous Angry Penguin Bread Pudding, which was an offer I couldn't refuse. It was good, but rarely will anything with that many carbs taste bad.