Except for the triple-digit thermometer reading, Saturday afternoon at the Missouri River shore was a tourism promotion kind of day. That’s the movie about the massive, mean-spirited, anybody-want-to-fight-me great white shark that terrorized beach goers and Sheriff Martin Brody. The idea of more people on my stretch of the Missouri River didn’t excite me. In what I thought was a light-hearted vein, I wrote a column that called Lake Oahe my river. One letter writer went so far as to explain the history, laws and regulations of the river, showing me that I didn’t own the Missouri.