“This Mississippi has kicked the pretty outta me,” Trish grouses a few days, two locks and 44.4 miles later, shrugging on the same nondescript gray hooded sweatshirt that she’s been wearing since we left Alton. She steps onto the rear deck, aka “the back porch,” somehow managing to keep her coffee mug level in one hand while balancing toast and a Good Housekeeping magazine in the other. Unlike Robin and me she’s consistently sure-footed, moving about with solid coordination and the uncanny ability to remain upright no matter how vigorously Blackout rocks and flounders in the wake and wash of passing tows and speeding power yachts, bows high, up on plane.
I’d been led to believe that I was the klutziest boater on Earth. But Derek never met Robin. Like me, she’s forever banging into hard surfaces. Our shins, elbows, upper thighs, hipbones and sundry other areas are covered with bruises of varying shades of black, blue, purple and yellow.
“You can blame yours on lupus,” I tell her. “What’s my excuse?”
Trish squinches her lips into a moue of distaste as she watches the river, where tree trunks and phone poles pinion and batter, herding and plowing smaller branches and other floating detritus into a raft of wired wooden tumbleweeds. Some of the big oaks defy all remora, allowing nothing to cling as they plow along like unmanned native dugouts.
“Creepy,” Trish points, as a naked plastic baby doll with one eye drifts by tangled in some plastic fishing line and a macabre noose of yellow braided poly rope. I shiver and sip my coffee from a mug proclaiming the merits of a yacht brokerage in Boca Raton, Florida. From Rob’s eclectic collection Trish has chosen a mug from Daffy Doug’s Dollar Store in Marathon, Florida.
For three days the river and its banks have eluded us, cloaked invisible in sodden low-hanging gray vapor irrigated by a steadily weeping sky that drizzles between downpours. Having completed the jaunt from Alton to Hoppies Marina with no more discomfort than enduring the burning pig manure stench wafting from the fields, we are now officially sidelined at Hoppies Marina waiting for the fog and rain to clear so we can safely navigate the upcoming 400-mile stretch of river. It’s unforgiving. Downright mean. And landings aren’t easy to come by. Or anchorages.
You can travel on the river in the fog but you’re taking your boat and your life in your hands. Even the tows don’t move when it’s foggy. Especially when the current is running hard, water brimming with flotsam and jetsam.
Several boats are holed up at Hoppies. We exchange hellos — I nod from a distance and keep my hood up-with the boats closest to us. A 65-foot riverboat named Slo-poke, complete with spiral water slide and a potted garden of tomato plants and petunias in full bloom on the top deck. Sixty-five feet might seem extravagant, but Slo-poke houses a big family — Mom, Dad, and a stair-stepped progression of five children aged two to 21. Behind us is a 40-foot crimson Nordic Tug named Newfie Bullet, owned by gangly Jack, a 70-something silver-haired blue-eyed charmer, and his wife Dee. “I wanted to name the boat Red Jacket, but Dee wouldn’t let me,” he says, chuckling.
“Too obvious,” says Dee.
The weather soothes my worries about nightly dock parties and potlucks. We gathered under the covered fueling area/lounge with dishes to pass on the first night we arrived and the dock filled up. It’s too cold and wet to socialize outdoors. No indoor space is large enough. A few boaters have invited us for dinner, which Robin and I have been able to avoid. She doesn’t like dinner parties. She’s afraid she may be offered something gross, like rare meat or broccoli. I’m not getting anywhere near discussions about Loops or anything else that may trigger memories or questions.
Trish is our willing stand-in. But for the most part everyone is focused on their own boats, the weather and being grumpy. So Hoppies Marina is relatively quiet and I can remain anonymous.
Although “marina” is a rather grand term for the three anchored barges that comprise the docks, connected by steel cables strung and fastened to the towering cliff above. The shore, and the nearby town of Kimmswick, Missouri are accessed by a sharply angled metal dock adjusted to the rise and fall of the relentless river. Owners Hoppie, a thin man with the kind and patient eyes of a tolerant hound dog, and his outspoken wife, Fern, provide dock space and dispense fuel as well as wisdom to pleasure boats plying the river. There is no bathhouse. I used the shore bathroom inside the Quonset mechanics building once, but found that peeing next to the rattling train tracks into a bowl with dubious stains that I tried to convince myself were just rust severely inhibited my flow. Just the sight of it would have constipated Robin for a week, so I told her to steer clear. We are all using the head on the boat, which means that sooner rather than later we will need a tank pump-out.
So far I’ve avoided Fern and Hoppie. It’s egotistical to think that they would remember me. Hoppies Marina Service was established by the Hopkins family in 1934. Sure, it’s the only fuel stop for the next 400 miles, so Derek and I have stayed here a few times, but so have hundreds of other boaters. Still, I am not taking any chances.
We sent Trish to Fern’s River School, where the forthright matriarch provides all the do-and-don’t tips for getting us off this river and safely on to the next leg of the downstream journey. Trishie argued that Robin should go, too. “So what if you’ve already been. Ever heard of a refresher course?”
“I’m bored, but not that damn bored,” Robin responded. We all know why I shouldn’t go.
Aside from Fern’s famous River School, there isn’t much to do in Kimmswick. We’re all read out. Robin just keeps playing a John Mayer CD over and over while wiping the constant condensation off the windows in the salon, where the little Ben Franklin stove crackles, the only merry element in sight on yet another somber morning.
“We might need to DO something pretty soon, even if it’s bad,” Robin informs us, shouting from the interior.
“I hear you, Rob,” Trish hollers then aside to me, “What I’m hearing is OCD and ADD.” She raises her voice again. “What time is breakfast?”
“Ooh ooh ooh. Oooh Oooh Oooh,” Robin sings along with Mayer. The soulful emanations (more like “so foul” Trish says) lost their charm two hours ago. Restless from the travel delay, we are all getting up well before dawn, something none of us are accustomed to.
“Rob, find another CD please. Anything.”
I can hear her shuffling through the audio cupboard. “Is “A Jimmy Buffett Christmas” OK?”
“God no.”
More shuffling. On my boat we used remote control to effortlessly change the music. It strikes me as unreasonable on my part to now appreciate Derek’s cleverness with gadgets. He was very adept at fixing anything that broke and hooking up systems that operated at the touch of a button. Why, if he hadn’t hit me with words and punched me with his fists, you could almost have considered me spoiled.
Michael Jackson’s “Thriller” bangs out of the speakers. Robin has every Jackson CD. Loves the King of Pop. “This is good for Halloween, right?”
“That might be just enough to send me out into this endless wet,” Trish pulls the drawstring of her hood tight around her face. She looks like Kenny the faceless kid on South Park.
We’ve played endless rounds of euchre, consumed every last salty or sweet processed food snack on the boat and aimlessly wandered around getting wet on the few streets of the muddy but charming little town.
At the Blue Owl Café, Robin and the waitresses, who are clad in Little House on the Prairie dresses with immaculate white-flounced aprons, have a standing taunt. “Do I have an accent?”
“Yes, you have an accent.”
“Naw sugar, y’all have an accent.”
This is the highlight of Rob’s day. Going out to breakfast, she tells us, has always been her thing. Like an anxious mother stuffing nutrition into an underdeveloped and hyperactive preemie toddler, I am hard-pressed to stop praising her when she eats or to prod her to “take just one more bite,” as her well-done hamburger patty or fried chicken strips congeal on the plate. If there is a dog, cat, duck or heron around, she will feed them her food. And she is so thin.
There is no need to tempt her tastebuds at the Blue Owl, where amidst the lighted bakery cases heaped oversized apple bomb pies drenched in caramel, berry-erupting muffins bigger than a lumberjack’s fist and glossy doughnuts shining with glaze and sprinkles, Robin devours omelets and bacon and fruit crepes with the gusto of the aforementioned lumberjack. The soothing melodies of the live dulcimer band lull us into sitting with yet more steaming mugs of coffee long after our plates have been cleared.
The Owl shuts at 2 p.m. at which time the antiquing mavens south of St. Louis make the rounds of the many gift shops and historical exhibits that compose the town. Candy, candle and soap emporiums issue delectable smells into the narrow streets, fragrant replacements for the blacksmith, hardware, general store and saloons that were here in days of yore.
Trish and I particularly enjoy the wine shop, where regular afternoon tastings render us jolly and full of confidence. Despite our limited funds, we cannot afford to wear out our welcome and so kick in ten bucks each to purchase a recommended cabernet, a local domestic vintage we pronounce delicious. Rob likes wine about as much as she likes me bugging her to eat. She instead prefers to gloat over the cases of “award-winning pilsner” she stows in Blackout’s engine room, rendering us impervious to the constrictions of the dry counties coming up on our next leg of the rivers.
She’d buy us wine if we asked. “You’ll piss me off. If there’s something you need get it,” she has told us many times, separately and together. She foots the breakfast bill every morning including an outrageous tip; the Blue Owl isn’t cheap. Trish and I tactfully declined to go on the second morning, because we cannot afford to eat out every day. “I want you to come with me. Don’t you like it?” Yes and yes. So we go, but never take this generosity for granted.
There are none of what Trish calls “real stores” in Kimmswick. No groceries or discount superstores.
We hear Robin clattering around in the galley. “What time do you guys want to go for breakfast?” she calls.
“Just let us know when you’re ready,” Trish shouts through the door. She looks at me, lowering her voice. “Miss Robin is rearranging the cupboards. Again. Well at least she’s not running that darn Roomba. Again.”
Robin adores her robot vacuum; we’re always tripping over it or being startled as it comes whirring from around the corner or under the couch. “She’s scared to use the hand-held for a little while, anyway,” I note, and we both snicker, remembering the scene at the dock when Rob emptied the sweeper bag without regard for wind direction, velocity or the classic snotty yachtsman in his admiral’s cap applying a tad more varnish to his Bristol brightwork which was promptly besmirched by a clot of carpet fuzz, assorted lint, toast crumbs and three colors of hair strands in varying lengths.
“He was an idiot, anyway,” Robin calls out back. “Who varnishes wood in the rain?”
“It’s a good thing there was such a heavy fog, he never saw where it came from,” Trish reminds her. “And it wasn’t raining then; it was only misting a little.”
“Whatevs, Home Slice,” Rob says, and we laugh again. She has no business trying to speak gangsta and it never fails to crack us up when she tries.
“This reminds me of Joey.” Words fascinate my son; we’ve spent many road trips pointing out to each other misspellings and grammatical errors on roadside billboards and restaurant menus. He has a good ear for modern colloquialisms and is always reminding me that I don’t. “I gave him a ‘Holla Back!’ once,” I tell the girls. “He ordered me to not, under any circumstances say that again. Ever.”
“I hope I get to have kids someday.,” says Trish. “Obviously not gonna happen around here. Not a pretty penis in sight, let alone husband material.”
“Not a swanky frank in the neighborhood,” I agree. “You can always hit on a lockmaster or one of those burly attendants. I’ve seen you eyeing the ladders, like you could just climb right on up and get yourself a real man!”
“Yeah, right,” she shakes her head to the contrary. “Not my type.”
“Well, I’m no advertisement for what a marriage should look like,” I tell her, treading lightly. “And honestly, I don’t know that you want kids. They’re a lot of heartache. And they may grow up to hate you.”
Trish sets her mug down on the grill top. “Don’t you say that.”
“Lisa hates me.”
She takes me by the shoulders. “It will get better. She’ll come around.”
“Thanks, sweetie. But I don’t know about that. Now change the subject before I start blubbering.”
“OK,” she turns to Rob, “We headed to New Orleans?”
Robin shrugs and says, “South.”
“Hailey, where are you going?”
“I honestly don’t know yet, but where I end up doesn’t have to be where you end up. Or where Robin lands. I’m really sorry if you feel we dragged you into this open-ended thing, but we’re at loose ends right now and that’s the truth,” I say.
“Yeah, right, like you dragged me into this. Besides, I am having fun, even though not taking showers every day is an affront to my feminine sensibilities.” Pensive, she picks a fleck of lint off the arm of my fleece jacket. “Please tell me we’re gonna stick together on this. I cannot imagine bailing before we come to the end of whatever story this is — or the end of Robin’s beer, whichever comes first.”
I snicker. “Well I’m just in it for the free breakfasts. And to take care of Robin when she derfs. That’s the real fun.”
Lupus makes for unsteady pegs. Combined with a 9-5 Miller Lite schedule, “derfs,” as Robin calls the bruising stumbles and falls, are a weekly if not daily occurrence, complete with bloody lips, black eyes, cracked ribs and peed pants. I’m familiar with all of the above, but not this form of domestic self-abuse.
Trish and I see the elephant in the room. But since we are all on a free-will odyssey, we can’t bring ourselves to stage an intervention.
Perhaps we envy Robin her freedom to spout, despite the beer that fuels it, with no artifice and no guilt. Under cover of a Kelly Clarkson freedom anthem (Robin switched it up), Trish says, “I read a couple of magazine articles. Rob’s right. Lupus isn’t fatal. But alcoholism is.”
The fourth day at Kimmswick dawns clear.
The stars are still out when we get up; even Trish, who likes to sleep in, is on deck wrapped in fleece and raring to go, her breath fogging in the chilly air. She mimics smoking a cigarette, shaking her head as I stub my one allowed smoke of the morning out in the butt can. By example I am trying to get Robin to stop tossing hers in the water.
My grubby red turtleneck is rolled up over my chin, sunglasses on, jacket hood up, gloves on. Robin cackled as she watched me layer two pairs of sweatpants over black tights. “You look like the Michelin Man.” Rob’s still wearing cargo shorts. She gave away all of her pants when she left Michigan, convinced she would never travel anywhere cold again. When it’s frosty she stays inside with the heater blasting.
Bundled as I am, I can still move fast enough to catch the lines as Hoppie unties and tosses the ropes. He shoves Blackout into the current, which merrily grabs the keel and catapults the 40,000-pound, 44-foot steel craft out into the rushing river as if it were no bigger or heavier than a dime-store rubber ducky.
“And awwwayy we go!” Robin hollers from the helm, like some anorexic Jackie Gleason. “Holy crap, we’re going 7 in neutral,” she announces. We are gape-mouthed at the sheer force of the water.
Even with powerful dual engines it would be a formidable task to go against the rush of the muddy water, bubbling and swirling like some dark brew at boiling point. The straightaways are tepid going compared to the “turbulent corners” Fern famously warns of in her River School.
“You do not, repeat DO NOT, want to catch a tow on a turbulent corner,” she tells her attentive students. “Your boat’s gonna dance, believe me, it will.”
I know this because despite my current desire to remain persona non grata, Trish has written the quote down and emphasized it with pink highlighter in her Hello Kitty loose-leaf notebook, which she has placed on the navigation table next to the paper charts.
“You’re turning into quite the little navigator,” Robin praises.
“Watch it, pipsqueak, I’ve got at least a foot of height and four bra cup sizes on you,” Trish says, winking from behind her pixie-framed crystal encrusted reading glasses, one of her recent finds at a Dollar General Store somewhere upriver. She has not entirely abandoned her fashion standards, although the false eyelashes have been relegated to the “Louie Vitton” satchel. With just an artful smudge of shadow and liner-“I have to wear some makeup or my eyes just disappear”-and a dusting of blush, this 40-something could easily pass for 30. Not that anyone’s counting.
“Now watch, you guys, we should be able to see the Kakka Lock soon, so keep an eye out,” Robin says.
“Coming up on a turbulent corner,” announces Trish, as I scan the shoreline with the binos.
“Tow. Coming fast!”
Robin has angled Blackout to the inside corner of a tight curve where the water roils with riled-up current, just as the lead tow of a triple-wide barge pokes its iron nose around the blind corner. “Christ, there isn’t even time to hail it,” she mutters. “Shee-ut.” Cig clamped between her front teeth, two hands on the wheel, we ride so close to the metal monster that you could reach out and slap it. “Hang on girls!”
“Fern says to take it on the red line,” Trish instructs urgently. “Pass on the inside bend. And don’t tell him the river mile, they don’t go by that …”
“He’s gonna see us in a minute,” Robin says tensely, both hands on the wheel, cigarette still clamped between her teeth. We’re cranked over as far as we can be without running up on the bank.
“Come on now, come on, yougottagimmesomeroom,” comes the terse radio command from the tow captain. At least he’s spotted us.
“Better on the inside bend than outside, at least,” I mumble, rushing forward, one hand on the rail, to make sure everything is securely tied down. The tow wash will churn hardest on the outside curve. The wake won’t hit us on the inside until the business end of the beast has passed. And if Robin can maintain enough control to cut perpendicular across the wash, we’ll ride it out just fine. I look up at the tow’s pilot house. A mounted plaque announced the vessel’s name: Tom Jump. The captain waves. I nod in return, planting my fanny on the anchor box, legs braced.
The prop wash is a foaming mass. Logs shoot out, airborne, from beneath the Tom Jump’s stern, as if the barge is chucking missiles at us deliberately. Robin gamely fights for steerage. Evading a fencepost, a section of plastic floating dock and a deflated yellow strip of plastic containment boom, she deftly cuts left, crossing the larger vessel’s wake, angling toward the opposite bank.
“There it is!” I point toward the channel leading to Kaskaskia Lock & Dam.
“Christ, what next?” says Robin, stubbing out her cigarette and turning for the entrance.