Dear Party Boat,
Ah, the Party Boat. My elusive Chicago summer crush. Always in sight, just out of reach. I gaze at your longingly from the beach, where a toddler just threw sand on my face and the sand is riddled with glass. Here I am, reading some terrible YA novel as the sun beats down on me. I long to be with you, Party Boat, as fun young Chicagoans drink and dance and swim with you mid-lake. I pine for you.
Chicago summer is a magical time. A city lined with beaches, with festivals on every block and a god damn fireworks show every week. The most magical thing of all, though, is how the hell all these people get to you, Party Boat. How are there so many Party Boats? How do all these 20-somethings find their way onto them every weekend of the summer?
I think a pile of dead fish just washed up on shore.
Is there Uber for boats? Did they pirate you, Party Boat? God, I hope they don’t own you. I can barely deal with Chicago 20-somethings owning real estate. Luxury boat ownership just may make me walk the plank.
Oh wow. I think you just hitched up to another boat, Party Boat. And I think that third one is about to join—yep, yep, yep. It’s a chain of Party Boats, taunting us beach-dwellers. 25 Midwestern mavericks—that’s the only way all these kids got onto these small yachts, sorcery—drinking beers and listening to Pitbull. Yes, I can hear your music from land. And yes, I realize you made sure of that.
Write me back, Party Boat. It’s been a long time coming between you and I. And I think there’s enough magic to go around.
Tenderly,
Beach-Dweller
