As Woody Allen might say, "There's nothing good to do on Lake Erie, and it's impossible to get there to do it." We Clevelanders have come to accept the fact that the lake is for other people; those with boats, and babes, and long-winded fish tales. We, on the other hand, are stuck with landlocked bars, where the best views we can hope for include sidewalks, parking lots and the occasional tree. But there is a place – one place – where the land meets the water, and the air is unsullied by the fumes from the #1 bus to Public Square. It's here on Whiskey Island, an odd patch of turf that for years was the best kept secret of some, but now is the best kept secret of many. Cold beers, the lap of the water, the magical setting sun. This is where summer officially begins in Cleveland, and where summer officially gives way to fall. We leave the sand volleyball to those much more ambitious than us, choosing instead to focus on the passing boats, the faded Coast Guard Station, another ice cold beer. No, the food's not great, and when busy the service can be worse, but we don't get caught up in all that. Instead, we just listen to live music, pet a few puppies, order another cold draft beer. Before you know it, August will give way to September, and nobody will be bitching about the food. We'll be bitching about the Browns.