Tales of Frosty Lake: Part 2

I call you Friend of the Shore, now that I am here, out in the icicle water. I've called you other names before: Friend of the Weed Wacker, Friend of the Blue Corn Chips, Friend of the X-box. But now, right now, you are Friend of the Shore and I see you calling me with cupped hands and a mouth like the letter o.

I should be abandoning the things I know in here, the subtle things I've discovered between the beds of frozen kelp. I need diagrams outlined in thick black with red connecting arrows. All this lake offers is a pencil sketch on a lonely sand dollar. Those are no directions, that is no clear signal.

I need a milkshake and some grilled mackerel. I need a beach chair and a mystery novel. I need five dollars and the time to fish for my own dinner. Can you supply these things Friend of the Shore? Can you fill my shallow bowl?