Both sun-bronzed and athletic, they were either well-preserved ’70-somethings’ or weather worn ’60-somethings’. We had seen Ines earlier at a local restaurant, so we knew their bathing suits - Ines’ tiny bikini and Julian’s more modest trunks – were everyday wear here in Tres Bocas, a scattered cottage community about 45-minutes out into the delta of the Rio Parana.
Ines showed us the magnificent wooden rowing shells that she rented out to anyone who wanted to row in the island’s shallow, muddy channels.
Julian gave us a quick tour of the tiny, stilted cottage he had built himself out of corrugated metal and large sheets of glass, and painted an 
ecstatic yellow. On the lawn nearby, a number of friends reclined around a table bearing the remains of a huge mid-day meal.
ecstatic yellow. On the lawn nearby, a number of friends reclined around a table bearing the remains of a huge mid-day meal.
We had found our way to their little compound by following the beaten footpath along the “arroyo santa rosa, sobre margen izquierda”, the left bank of the Santa Rosa creek, intrigued by signs offering ‘Learn-to-Row’ lessons. The winding channel was about 15 feet wide and it’s stagnant, chocolate milk waters kept its depth a mystery, but it didn’t look like a very welcoming rowing course.Along the way, we had admired the hodgepodge of stilt cottages, tall docks and worn watercraft, and had wondered at the mix of people we saw lounging under the scraggly shade trees: preppy professionals on a weekend away from Buenos Aires, aging ‘hippy’ couples like Ines and Julian, pretty gay boys enjoying a polished meal on their dock, boisterous blue collar types fishing in the murky waters, broad-shouldered transvestites gossiping on a porch, muscular teens at their summer jobs in the marina.
This was clearly one of the fabled “edge-of-the-world” communities that I enjoy discovering in my travels; places like Provincetown, Key West and Wreck Beach that take their beyond-the-end-of-the- line isolation as an invitation to break the constraints of a more conservative society.
And Tres Bocas is certainly beyond the end of the line. My buddies Gustavo and Juan had accepted my invitation to take a Sunday excursion to Tigre. It’s a riverfront town about 45 minutes north west of Buenos Aires, following the banks of the Rio de la Plata on the suburban commuter train (a 40 cent fare). 
Tigre itself is famous for its Naval museum, its Puerto de Fruta market (more furniture and handicrafts than fruit), and to my 
delight, over-the-top 19th century rowing clubs. The elite “Buenos Aires Rowing Club” actually looks more like a Scottish castle than my simple brick club in Toronto.
delight, over-the-top 19th century rowing clubs. The elite “Buenos Aires Rowing Club” actually looks more like a Scottish castle than my simple brick club in Toronto.
At the water terminal’s “rampa 1”, we boarded a “Lancha colectivo”, one of dozens of sculpted wooden bus-boats , circa 1945, that serve the channels of the 200 square kilometer delta where the Rio Parana meets the Rio de la Plata.
The lanchas plow through the muddy waters at top speeds, blowing their horns at private boats, barges, jet skis and rowing shells carrying families of eight (no kidding!) that stray into their paths. Their wakes bounce off the channels’ walls and form stupendous, intersecting waves and troughs. To my rule-ridden mind, it is a “quilombo”, chaos.The lanchas stop at any dock where someone waves them down, reversing into the hanging stairs just long enough for a passenger to hop ashore or aboard. On this warm, sunny Sunday, there are many stops.
The scenery from the comfortable seats of the lancha reveals a democratic summer community. There are fancier homes, with very-English manicured lawns, leaning shacks with tumble-down docks, campground beaches full of noisy families...
Juan, Gustavo and I had hopped off the lancha colectivo at Tres Bocas – three mouths, where three channels meet – and spent the afternoon wandering the footpaths of the island. 
Our mid-afternoon meal, huge servings of grilled diaphragm (entrana) and ‘loma’ on the tree-shaded patio the El Hornero parrillo, was a slow, relaxing affair with ice-chilled white wine and plenty of human scenery.
By the time we boarded the lancha back to Tigre, we had each convinced ourselves to come back: Juan to spend 15 days reading, Gustavo to explore other islands, and me … to take up Ines’ invitation to go rowing along the winding channels of this “edge of the world” little community.-30-
