I had rum and a dead man to thank for my treasure map. Maybe 20 years my senior, Dave was a summer neighbor. One balmy July evening he hailed me across our yards.
“Come on over,” he called. “I’m making daiquiris.”
Dave knew his way around the construction of a proper cocktail. His daiquiris were paradigms of tart-sweet simplicity—white rum, lime juice, superfine sugar, ice—and they went down as silkily as hookers in Havana. Pretty soon our tongues were wagging, and I started blathering about an upcoming trip to Ontario’s Lake of the Woods.