The place hadn’t changed in nearly a decade and a half. Not since that July morning in 1991 when it was “discovered” by a handful of kids now grown and moved away, and by a couple of dads who’d gotten a tad fatter, a smidge grayer and a bit lonelier through the spilling of the 14 summers, one into the other.

Back then, in Chippewa Bay just a few miles east of Alexandria Bay, it had been dubbed “Pirate Island.” But as the collection of rocks had sprouted only a single living tree rather than the required two, it didn’t qualify as one of the official 1,864 dots, big and small, that make up the St. Lawrence River’s 1,000 Islands. But, no matter. Pirate Island, it once was. Pirate Island, it would forever remain.

“You know what’s so great about this place?” the one father, no longer punching the hands-on parental clock, asked the other.

“No,” the other said, “but I’m sure you’re gonna tell me.”

“There are no mirrors here.”

“Huh?”

“It doesn’t matter how old you are when you hit the water. I don’t care if you’re 17 . . . 47 . . . 67 . . .When you come up, you’re as young and flat-bellied as you want to be. When you come up, you’re 11.” As they spoke, the two of them were navigating their way around Pirate Island, swimming and floating and paddling from one jutting rock to another, all the while musing about their brides and their kids and their jobs and, of course, their projected lives after hitting the lottery. “I’d have to get a boat,” said the one as the cool, crystal water around him had been made into green/blue liquid jewelry by a beaming sun. “I’d get a boat, come here and be the happiest guy in the world.”

“Because,” he was told,“ you’d be 11.” It was not for nothing that the folks who first laid eyes on the 1,000 Islands region—the happy marriage of woods and water, of forests and fish, of seaway and stars that separate the United States from Canada—dubbed it the “Garden of the Great Spirit.” Great spirits, after all, don’t settle near tire graveyards or in Jersey City or along Erie Boulevard. They prefer places like Chippewa Bay, which 10,000 years ago sat under a block of ice more than a mile in height that ultimately melted and left behind a natural masterpiece that sparkles less than two hours north of Clinton Square. That’s right. An enchanting domain that could serve as heaven’s own waiting room is perched just up the road, and yet so many of us treat it as New Yorkers do the Statue of Liberty or San Diegans do the Pacific. We know it’s there, sure. We’ve seen the photos and everything. We just haven’t gotten around to visiting them. Which is kind of like passing by a bakery, day after day after day, without ever popping in for a sliver of . . . something.

This is our Grand Canyon, our Alps, our Great Barrier Reef. This is our great gift, bestowed for an unknown reason upon people who complain far too much. And earlier this week, a group of six adults and two kids—five of whom were visiting from Louisiana, three of whom were locals— were smart enough to take a peek at it on one of those summer days that you read about.

Specifically, they packed a rented 28-foot pontoon with towels and food and drink and at least one silly hat, and ferried off on a dazzling eight-hour experience that cost less than $300, including gas, oil and potato chips. That’s what they did. And, yeah, for the better part of a morning and throughout an entire afternoon, they were all 11 again. At least the old folks were.

Anyway, do the arithmetic on that, factoring in the romance left behind by all those adventurers who’d traveled the same unclouded waters going back a good 50 centuries, and try to find a greater return on your buck. Better yet, don’t waste your time. The boy was 7 and from New Orleans, so he knew a thing or two about buccaneers and sea dogs and scalawags. So when he happened upon a floating stick—roughly half the length of a baton, roughly half the girth of a rolled-up daily newspaper—he was thunderstruck by the mysterious etchings up and down its side.

“It’s from a pirate ship, isn’t it?” he asked. “What’s it say?”

“I can’t make it out,” answered the kid’s uncle. “I think it’s French or Portuguese. Or maybe it’s Iroquois. That’s it. It might be some old Indian message.”

(Or maybe it was just some natural scratchings, what with the water and the rocks having nibbled—albeit, exquisitely—on the wood.) “No, it’s a note from pirates. See that ‘N’ there? That probably stands for ‘North. ’This is Pirate Island, isn’t it? I’ll bet their ship sank out there and they threw this into the water for help. Maybe there’s some treasure out there.”

The uncle, of course, was 11 at this point, even if his birth certificate swore he was more than four times that age. And because he was 11, because there were no mirrors to dispute that fact, he gazed out across the dancing St. Lawrence waters and nodded.

“Oh, there’s treasure, all right,” said the middle-aged man who was no longer a middle-aged man. “This is the 1,000 Islands. There’s treasure everywhere.”

Bud Poliquin is a columnist for The Post-Standard in Syracuse, NY. His column appears regularly. Additionally, he can be heard on Sports Radio 620 WHEN (AM 620) Mondays through Thursdays between 5-7pm. He can be reached via e-mail at bpoliquin@syracuse.com.

© 2005 The Post Standard. Used with permission. Copyright 2005 syracuse.com. All Rights Reserved.