I was right about the tar： it led to within half a mile of the shore. But when I got back there， with my boy， and we settled into a camp near a farmhouse and into the kind of summertime I had known， I could tell that it was going to be pretty much the same as it had been before — I knew it， lying in bed the first morning， smelling the bedroom， and hearing the boy sneak quietly out and go off along the shore in a boat. I began to sustain the illusion that he was I， and therefore， by simple transposition， that I was my father. This sensation persisted， kept cropping up all the time we were there. It was not an entirely new feeing， but in this setting it grew much stronger. I seemed to be living a dual existence. I would be in the middle of some simple act， I would be picking up a bait box or laying down a table fork， or I would be saying something， and suddenly it would be not I but my father who was saying the words or making the gesture. It gave me a creepy sensation.