The Ballad of Boat Ramp Dawn

In the spirit of Raymond Carver and his editor, Our Sunshine and I are in the studio trying to clean the Old Salt posts up into something seamless, literate and legible.

"You need to put 'cock' in there."
"Where?"
"After 'Sometimes fishing really sucks' ."
"You mean 'Sometimes fishing really sucks cock'? "
"Yep."
I read it out loud again. "Yeah, that works," before we fell all over each other in hysterics.

"Now ... 'Dawn at the Boat Ramp.' Who is Dawn?"
"What?"
"Who's Dawn?"
"It's dawn, dag. Like dawn, in the morning. Y'know, before noon and dusk."
"Oh. Okay. Well, how about we change it to 'Boat Ramp Dawn' so it doesn't sound like a creepy woman who hangs around boat ramps?"
Our Sunshine thinks about her suggestion and shakes her head. "No, no, that's just wrong. The visuals are doing my head in."
"I can visualise that and it doesn't hurt too much." I say. "It's fucking great! 'Boat Ramp Dawn.' The Ballad of Boat Ramp Dawn. Now there's a story."

"Read from the bit about seeing someone riding your bike in the darkened car park," she says, giving up on Dawn and going for the next story, her head turned on one side, listening for onomatopoeia, the cadence.
"I recognised that passionate brace of the handlebars," I read out loud, "the desperate way that you ride that particular bike in the dark, the sensual sway of the fruit box on her back wheel ..."
"Stop it! Stop!"
"What?"