The relief from the uneasy motion of the Mississippi proper is immediate. This 325-mile tributary is a small thing in comparison. The lock wall where the Skipper Bob guidebook and Fern say it’s OK to tie up for the night is directly ahead, a concrete and rip-rap T protruding from the dirt-hill shoreline slightly to the right. Boats going through the lock enter to the left.
“Call the Kakka lockmaster,” Rob instructs.
“It’s Kass-Kass-Key-Ah!” Trish and I correct in unison, high-fiving each other at the inadvertent synchronicity. Robin is verbally challenged. She persists in calling the floating bollards that we lasso in the locks for raising or lowering “ballards” and keeps us howling over various other mispronunciations.
The Kaskaskia Lockmaster doesn’t see all that much traffic; clearly pleasure boats seeking a night’s sanctuary off the main river is the highlight of his day. As Fern noted, “He’s kinda lonesome, so invite him down there.” As expected, the courtly gent relays permission to tie up and then comes out of his perch in the control tower to grab our lines. I keep my head down, adjusting bumpers, uncoiling rope, then hang back on the stern and let Trish take the lead. Thankfully I don’t recognize him. Might be a new tender.
“Good evening ladies and gentleman. Now, y’all are welcome to get out and stretch your legs here on the lockwall, but you must be back on your vessel before dark.”
“Roger that,” Trish responds coquettishly. “Care to join us for an adult beverage when you’re off work?” He’s cute, in a rugged, stocky sort of way, with sandy, short hair and no wedding ring. About the right age for her. Harmless fun, I decide, watching Trishie practice her wiles.
“That’s real nice of you, sweetheart, but unfortunately I’ll be working all night. Any more pleasure craft pullin’ in that you know of?”
“Let’s see — there was one boat ahead of us — and I think three more were planning on leaving Hoppies today.” Trish attempts to toss her come-hither locks, apparently forgetting that she hasn’t shampooed in four days and has covered her greasy scalp with a flowered babushka scarf. The scarf has slipped sideways, giving her an off-kilter, slightly manic silhouette.
There’s only room for so many boats at the sparse anchorages and docks in the stretch ahead of us. Trish collected intel by brazen knocking on hulls the night before we left. An insular group of terse, parlez-vousing Quebec-ers had decided to stay another day so they could all travel together.
“Well,” the lockmaster smiles. “There should be enough room for everybody. Y’all tell them about stretching their legs and so forth, all right?”
“Okey dokey, will do,” says Trish. “Thank you kindly for your hospitality!”
“One more thing, where y’all headed? Need your documentation number or registration.”
“Five eight one six nine five,” Robin reels off from memory, deliberately lowering her voice an octave from normal
“Thank you, sir.” He notes the info on his clipboard. “Destination?”
With Trishie’s gamin-blond handiwork hidden, Robin does indeed pass for a man. She does not correct him. Trish and I are doing our best to suppress the giggles.
“Back to New Orleans. Been stuck up north ever since Katrina. Time to get back,” she nearly growls. With her denim ball cap brim pulled low, the effect is decidedly if comically masculine, slightly bowed legs protruding from baggy, shin-length khaki cargo shorts, long sleeve denim shirt topped by the ubiquitous Guy Harvey t-shirt.
“Hurricane Katrina, a helluva tragedy. Glad you got your boat out of there in one piece,” he says. “You have a good night, now.”
“You too,” we chorus, chortling like ninnies the minute he’s out of earshot.
The 65-foot riverboat Slo-poke glides into the river majestically and slides in behind us, followed by a sailboat.
A smaller sailboat, motoring right for us. There weren’t any sailboats at Hoppies. I stop breathing. My throat closes. Sweat pops under my arms and on my breast bone. This is not a hot flash. It’s terror. I’ve been kidding myself about doing the unexpected. Totally predictable. Here he is. Derek knows more about me than I think he does. But it is a pretty 32-foot sailboat with the cheerful name of Chip Ahoy.
I pull in air like an asthmatic hitting her inhaler. A half-hour later the 40-foot Nordic Tug Newfie Bullet takes up the last available spot on the wall. gangly Jack says it’s nice to see us again and promptly unpacks his accordion. The rain kept everyone inside their own boats at Hoppies. In clear weather on a calm river, they’re all in a more social frame of mind. We spend Happy Hour drinking Robin’s beer and eating Dee’s snack of Rold Gold pretzel twists dipped in her special horseradish mustard. Everybody polkas to such timeless hits as “Edelweiss” and “Roll Out the Barrel.” Slo-poke’s rackety family steals the spotlight and I relax enough to enjoy a twirl with Trishie around our makeshift dance floor.
The need to remain persona non grata will be easier after one more night on the Mississippi. The bottleneck of the linear path will ease, while not entirely diminishing, as boaters strike out on slightly different routes and varied timetables. There is still only one way to get to the Gulf, but some will choose, or be forced by the inevitable breakdowns of both boats and crews, to stay longer in places that have marinas with repair and storage facilities. I remember the letdown when the pack scattered during my first Loop. There had been safety and comfort in numbers. Derek did not yell or manhandle me as much when there was an audience. And sometimes I could escape for an hour or so, into the laundry room, for a walk with the lady boaters or once even out to girls-only lunch at a Paducah deli. I winced, remembering how I’d had to beg to go. “It will look funny if I don’t, Derek. Everyone else is going.”
Dark falls. After Jack’s swan song, the virtuoso “Polka Symphony” we obey the lockmaster, retiring to our floating homes. Gas-powered generators grumble to life, lamps are lit, curtains closed. The air smells like steak and spaghetti. A Slo-poke baby wails briefly. Another night on the river.
“Good night Robin.”
“G’night Trishie.”
“Nighty Night, Hailey.”
“Good night ladies,” I trill.
“We’re the freakin’ Waltons all right,” opines Rob before punching her pillow into shape and turning her back to us on the couch.
“Maybe those pills of yours will kick in and I’ll be able to snooze tonight,” I tell Trish. By now she is used to my post-midnight menopausal ministrations: kicking off the covers, wiping the sweat away with a dish towel that I keep handy under my pillow, rising to prowl around when my mind won’t stop running in pointless, worried circles.
“Yeah, and maybe I’ll get lucky tomorrow.”
“Fat chance,” I snicker. “But keep the faith. Maybe you’ll get lucky in Kentucky.”
Trish is shaking with silent laughter.
“Get it?” I ask. “Lucky in Kentucky!”
A little pig squeak escapes out her nose.
“Did you just snort?”
She laughs harder. It feels good to be free to be silly.
The jail dream wakes me at 3 a.m. Rob is already on the porch, staring out at the night, puffing away.
“Welcome Comrade in Mental Pause,” I whisper. “Where can we get some hormones?” I wipe my wet bangs off my forehead. In the chill the steam rolls off my overheated body. “Can you see this?” I ask her.
“It fogs up my friggin’ glasses. How long does this shit last?” she asks.
“Years and years, as far as I know. My mom says it builds slow, peaks and then eases off. Nobody talked about it very much back when it started for her, so she just thought she was going nuts. She’s a retired paralegal; wore those 80s power suits, high-heeled pumps, the whole nine yards. Her favorite pumps were black suede. She would sweat right through them. Drenched so many blouses she started wearing sweat pads along with those big shoulder pads. Said she felt like a linebacker, but she was tired of dry-cleaning bills and ruining clothes. And my mother-in-law, when she got ‘the change’? She went totally out of character. Drinking a bottle of wine instead of a glass, out dancing at the clubs, found herself a Harley-riding boyfriend that we caught her smoking a joint with. ”
“Pretty wild,” Rob swigs from her beer can.
“At least she was a happy kook. Better than my friend Susan. She cried over everything — the Packers coming on the field before the football game, Amber Alerts for lost children, Al Gore’s lost election-she was a real mess.” God, I miss my Reiki-healing, crystal-rubbing, dolphin-channeling Goddess Shaman friend! Maybe she could send us some hormones, or an herbal potion to chase away the nightmares and stabilize our sweat glands.
“Tomorrow, well, today, Cape Girardeau. Top off the fuel. There’s that floating dock. ”
“Stay there, or Little River Diversion?” That’s where Derek and I always anchored.
“We’ll see what it’s like. I’ll give ‘em a call later this morning.”
“Remember, Trish and I want to kick in on the fuel.”
She bristles, offended. “Don’t worry about it.”
That expression I hate, again. Does no good. I do not require permission to worry.
“I’m gonna try and get some shut-eye. We’ll be rollin’ on the river in a couple hours,” says my captain.
“Damn skippy, Skipper.”
***
The ocean doesn’t have a patent on wind against current. That’s what the river serves up the next morning. It hits us the minute we motor out of Kaskaskia’s shelter back onto the Mississippi. Beating into the wind against the flow of the current is a sailor’s worst nightmare. In a power yacht, however, we make real progress, keeping a tight focus on turbulent corners, the rafts of junk in the water and the wide tow barge configurations pushing ton after ton of raw goods up and down river. Often the pilots acknowledge us with a barked “meet you on the ones” (to the left) or “take you on the twos” (to the right). Others don’t talk; apparently it is beneath their dignity to deign to speak to recreational vessels. Operating on the you-big-we-little theory helps in those situations. We keep our ears out for one of the scariest scenarios, the so-called “bump and run,” which in tow lingo means a barge has come loose and is free-floating in the river.
“Huckleberry Finn would have been run over down here,” Trish observes, exhaling after another tow encounter. When she read in one of the guidebooks that it takes a quarter-mile for a tow-barge to even begin to slow down let alone stop she gained a new respect for the behemoths of which we are seeing 30 or more a day — and a new fear.
“They don’t want to run us over, Trishie. They really don’t. Think of the paperwork, the lawsuits, why, it would ruin their whole day!”
“And the mean ones, they’re just dickin’ with us,” Robin adds. “All in a day’s work. Breaks the monotony.”
“Speaking of which, how ’bout some lunch?” Trish rises from the co-pilot’s chair, making for the galley. She’s as taken with the luxurious layout as I am and a far better cook. “Let me go see what I can rustle up.”
The constant strain of keeping watch is wearing on all of us. I try to be grateful for the distraction from my dire personal situation. I remind myself that I’d much rather have a dozen tow-barges running at us in a super-size game of Chicken than Derek, coming for me, behind or ahead somewhere, waiting to pounce.
I can just hear him: “Police, arrest that woman!”
“Log to port,” I snap, as Robin adroitly swerves around another partially submerged obstacle.
“That’s got you, sucka,” she mumbles, turning neatly back to starboard. “How far to the Cape?”
“Five miles. Want me to try and get the fuel dock?” Robin and Trish have phones. Signal is iffy; neither one cares. But when we have reception it’s often the best way to reach marinas and fueling stops. Many are not big on answering radio hails, especially in off-season.
“See how late he’s open.”
After seven rings, someone picks up.
“They’re there until five; we’ll make it. But they don’t even wanna see us near the dock unless we’re taking on more than 100 gallons. The guy was adamant.”
“No sweat,” says Rob. “What’s his price on diesel?”
“Shit, I didn’t even ask. Want me to call back?”
“Nah.” And she shoots me that look again, the one that says we are not discussing money or lack thereof or chipping in, again. So I let it ride. Blackout carries up to 325 gallons of fuel in two 150-gallon saddle tanks and a 25-gallon day tank. One fill-up would completely drain my stockpiled tips.
The crinkle of a plastic bag perks us up like two dogs waiting for Pup-Peronis or Liv-a-Snaps.
“Girls!” Trish climbs up the pilothouse steps triumphant. “Look what I found.” She brandishes a family-size bag of Fritos.
“Hurray! I thought we cleaned out all the crunchy snacks. Were you holding out on us?”
“Well, Miss Hailey, these were hiding in the cupboard. Miss Robin here must have shoved them out of sight during her constant rearranging. We now have the perfect accompaniment to today’s luncheon special, ta da! Ham and Swiss on rye.”
Trish and I devour the thick-layered sandwiches on Blue Owl bread. Rob picks the ham out of hers, concocting what she calls a “ham roll-up,” turns up her nose at the lettuce but wolfs down at least half the bag of chips. At least she’s taking in calories, something to balance the beer IV. Her ability to function coherently continually amazes me. It’s heroic, tragic and bizarre. And since we are not discussing Derek, or money or any other touchy subjects, it follows that we are not going to talk about her nutritional deficits or the next lupus flare-up, whenever it may come.
A series of swooping bends and wide curves precede Cape Girardeau. Commercial traffic increases, along with merging Loopers and Snowbirds sprinting for one of only two possible stops for the night: Little River Diversion Channel or the floating fuel dock, the latter at best a maybe. Two of the yachts from last night are ahead of us. The sailboat Chip Ahoy is behind. A new cruiser appears on the scene in a silver pontoon, its cabin rimmed by a gaily-colored awning festooned with strings of chili-pepper lights. A very large, rotund man with a fuzzy aureole of platinum hair pops out of the pilothouse cradling a tiny, fluffy white dog in one arm as he frantically waves with the other. A vinyl banner tied to a side rail advertises the boat name: Garage Mahal. As he runs alongside Blackout we see that he’s hauling a blue metallic ski boat on the hip, tied to the starboard side. “Where did he come from?” Robin wonders. “That’s one hell of a dinghy.”
“I saw him at Alton,” Trish says. “I forget his name, but his dog is named Precious. Isn’t she cute? He said she fell off in the Missouri River so he dove off after her and let that raft ground up on the shore. He’s videotaping this whole trip for posterity. His wife and kids wouldn’t come along with him, so he’s gonna make ’em sit and watch every minute of tape when he gets back home to Nebraska.”
“And you thought I was weird,” Robin says, shaking her head.
“Not as weird as he is,” Trish affirms. “He travels without charts. Says he buys the chart for a particular waterway after he’s traveled through it, just to have a record of where he’s been. Fancies himself a pioneer explorer or something.”
We can see the Cape Girardeau town levee, a massive, angled concrete slab designed to hold back the fury of a Mississippi flood. It’s decorated with a colorful mural depicting prominent Missourians. I scan in vain for a portrait of hometown boy Rush Limbaugh.
“There’s the dock,” I point. Trish passes the binos. As soon as I have a fix I can see that staying there overnight isn’t an option. Tow traffic keeps the river rocking with constant wave action. The wind is compounding the unrest. Even at a distance I can spot the docks heaving up and down. The motion at this dock is reportedly so violent that it has snapped lines, emptied stomachs and caused boats to flee back out into the river at night because they couldn’t take it anymore.
I wave my hand at Rob’s lit cigarette. “Put that out before we pull in.” From a storage locker I pull out a couple of absorbent fuel pads, which resemble deluxe-size diapers. “Where’s your tool of special purpose?”
“OK, wifey, what’s a tool of special purpose?”
“It sounds slightly sexual, to me,” says Trish, mugging and leering.
“Get your minds out of the gutter! You know, the doo-dad to loosen the fuel cap. I thought I’d pump for us. It’s going to be a sporty situation. Between the weather and tow traffic that dock’s bouncing like nobody’s business.”
“Don’t need a tool of special whatever. The cap unscrews by hand. Port side. I’m not gonna turn in this current, so we’ll have to drag the hose across.”
“Roger that.” The wind is strong, coming straight at us, blasting my face as I step on deck to ready the lines for tie-up. Trish is on the phone with the fuel dock; we have permission to come on in. The waves have not subsided. Combined with the tow wake it’s like riding a bucking bronco in a washing machine.
“It’s a treat to beat your feet on the Mississippi mud...” I sing the only part of the song I remember from my childhood, adding my own line “Looking forward to beating it out of here.” I have a tendency to sing, hum or whistle when I’m nervous. Derek hates that.
I’m tense. Scared, even. The dock is heaving a full three-to-five feet up before smashing down into the water again. My former role in such situations was to hand over the tool of special purpose and “stay the hell out of the way.” Robin’s counting on me without doubt as she closes in on the floating dock. An unsmiling attendant, a young, tubby guy in blue coveralls, motions me to toss the lines. I hit the dock on the first try (yes!) and he hauls us in. The nozzle is heavy, handed over with no greeting or intent to invite anyone to disembark from the now violently rocking Blackout. Our ship rises up as the dock smacks down into the wave troughs. Then we’re down in the water and I’m looking up at the dock. On my knees, I twist off the cap and shove the nozzle into the tank. The pump clicks on the faraway shore. “Tell me when it’s full,” I rise to a crouch, yelling over to Mr. Friendly. Braced like a firefighter I wrestle the hose into a better position. I’m grinning. Someone — a few people, actually — assumed that I could do what even I wasn’t sure I could handle. It feels like a victory. “You know more than you think you know,” I whisper to myself.
The sun is sinking as we conclude Robin’s $1,200 credit card transaction. Her only comment about the $4 per gallon price was that she wished she’d gotten more fuel at Hoppies.
The second we untie, the current propels us forward at a brisk 12 miles per hour. “I can’t slow this train down,” Rob hoots, laughing.
“We can’t miss the opening,” I warn. “Keep a sharp eye to starboard, to the right, Trishie. The marker isn’t always there. The entrance could be narrow or it could be wide. I’ve seen both.” Created to accommodate overflow, Little River Diversion is always in flux.
“Can you take it for a minute?” Robin asks. I grab the wheel, still scanning the right descending bank. A minute later, a song pours out of the speakers. It takes me a minute-“Lonesome Loser,” by the Little River Band. “Very funny, Rob.”
“Little River Diversion Band,” she says, winking.
“Shit!” We missed it. Robin guns the engines, giving it all we’ve got to turn back, angled perpendicular to the current, which is running 4-5 miles per hour against us. “Are we moving?” She groans.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “I was watching, but the green marker is missing .” I wait for the snide comment, the scalding putdown, the sarcastic critique of my navigation skills or lack thereof.
“Chill out on the Blame Game, lady. I didn’t see it either,” Robin says. “Me neither,” says Trish.
Painfully, slowly, Blackout corrects course, inching across the raging current toward the brown ditch.
“One, two, three — five boats, including the wacky pontoon dude. Looks pretty wide though,” Trish says, adjusting the binoculars, peering into the canal.
I key up the radio mike. “To the boats in Little River Diversion, to the boats in Little River Diversion, you got any room in there?”
Ten seconds of silence. I’m familiar with the delay syndrome; it’s part of the boating experience. Everyone is waiting for somebody else to answer the question. So nobody answers or everybody steps on each other and garbles the radio talk. Finally, Chip Ahoy responds. “Yeah, we’re stacked up pretty good, but we’ll fit you in. Plenty of depth, I got seven feet, but it thins out ahead of me.” The sailboat must have passed us when we were fueling.
We thread our way into the notch, working Blackout around the yacht whose skipper unthinkingly plopped the anchor smack dab in the middle of the entrance. The sun is down, but the ambient light of the fading day graces us with decent visibility.
Three boats down there’s a vacant space where we’ll fit, barely. Overhanging tree branches from both sides of the skinny canal scrape the upper deck. Blessing the electric windlass that lowers and raises the anchor automatically, at Robin’s signal I hit the button that drops the hook. Holding is good here, in sticky muck composed of we-do-not-want-to-know-what. A thicket of deciduous trees, mostly oak, creeping vines and poplar saplings crowds up to the shoreline. The prescribed 4-to-1 anchoring scope is not possible here — letting out too much chain would allow us to swing up on the bank or into the boats behind or ahead of us — but I put out as much as I can to allow for depth fluctuation if the river rises overnight. Fern is succinct with her instructions regarding this stop: “Get out of here in a hard downpour. You don’t want to be in there when the runoff comes from Cape Girardeau.” I’m grateful there’s no rain in the forecast. Now if it would only warm up. I’m tired of wearing 10 pounds of clothes.
At my thumbs-up, Rob cuts the engine. It’s my favorite part of anchoring out, that still moment when the machines stop and the noise of the day, the vibrations that you become so accustomed to that you cease to notice them, stop. The forest rustles, chuckles, hoots, rushes.
“We’re 110 miles from Hoppies. Paducah is 90 miles and two locks away,” Trish announces as she sits at the map table, scrupulously filling in the log for the day.
An inhuman scream raises our hackles. Trishie’s eyes are as wide as an owl’s. She blinks. “What on God’s green Earth is out there?”
“Who Who Whooo’s out there?” Robin laughs.
“Well I hope nothing tries to get on board,” Trish frets.
“No worries,” I reassure. “Whatever is making that noise is a long way into the woods and more than likely doesn’t swim. Sound carries on the water.”
I take my turn in the galley, producing Velveeta shells and cheese mixed with cut-up hot dogs. As usual Robin turns up her nose at the accompanying green salad in which I used the last of our tomatoes, but to my gratification eats two helpings of the macaroni casserole.
We turn in early. No jail dreams. And the night sweats are but a mild one-time trickle. Maybe those pills are working. I simply mop my breastbone with the dish towel, turn back on my side and fall back into untroubled slumber.
The Ohio River transit is a 60-mile-long buzz kill. Turning the corner off the Miss and onto the Ohio is like hitting a brick wall. The five-knot current that was sweeping Blackout along at 10-12 mph is now a three-knot current against us. Chugging away at 6 mph we begin to wonder how long it will take to get to the first of the two locks. Rob impatiently strays from one side of the bank to the other, looking for the lesser current.
Trish is stir crazy. There isn’t anything to see or do. At the Mississippi turn-off, the big docks of Quaker Oats and other commercial operations held her interest briefly, as did the shoreline sighting of Cairo.
“That’s Cairo, like Egypt?”
“Actually it’s Kay-row,” I tell her. “And there’s nothing there. A sailing friend that Derek and I traveled with on the last Loop, Todd O. Smith, pulled over here and went ashore. He loved the little towns on the Loop and was traveling solo, so he would just stop whenever he felt like it and go looking for company. He said you could roll a bowling ball down Main Street. Boarded-up storefronts, no life to speak of.”
“Thanks for the tutorial, Professor Henderson,” intones Robin, “We are grateful to have an Information Specialist aboard, but we got bigger issues here. “Beer.”
Bob Marley’s “Jammin’" oozes relax mode from the speakers, but Rob’s tone is decidedly not mellow.
The patchwork of dry counties along the Heartland river route has caused consternation among many a liquor-loving boater. Happy Hour disciples regard the sundowner as an essential component of the cruising life.
Having been here before, Rob knows that Paducah, Kentucky is the last place to procure spirits, or in her case, cases of beer, before we dock at Green Turtle Bay in the very dry county in the very dry town of Grand Rivers, Kentucky.
There’s no reliable place to anchor or dock in Paducah. The normal procedure is to go straight to Green Turtle and drive back to Paducah in the courtesy van, for which there is always a lengthy waiting list.
I have my own concerns about Green Turtle. I’ve made friends there. There are people to avoid. Slipping by undetected is not going to be fun or easy. In fact it’s highly unlikely.
Trish is at the wheel; Rob’s shuffling through CDs again. The Eagles, “Take it Easy.”
Uh-oh. Another song clue. I know she’s got The Big E in mind.
“Does the Rolling Thunder still exist?” I call back into the salon. “Words come to mind. Metal docks. Nightmare.”
“You worry too much,” is all she says.
We catch our first break of the day at Lock & Dam 53. When we contact the lockmaster on marine radio Channel 13, he informs us that the water is high enough to pass over the dam itself without locking through. “Just stay inside the buoys and you’ll be fine; current’s not too strong today,” he says.
“Huge time saver,” says Robin. “No problem hitting the Big E before dark.”
Trish is elated to be “driving the boat.” Robin coaches her through the channel as we pass by the old lock and the new “53” under construction that will eventually replace both this lock and the one ahead. The banks are pastoral, green hills rolling down to a yellowed tan shore of muddy sand. A flock of wild turkeys jogs unconcerned along the water’s edge. Twenty miles upriver, we spot the Superman water tower heralding the town of Metropolis. Word has it that shallow-draft boats can pull up at a decomposing but still useable public dock here, clamber over the busted timbers to shore and hike to town. Since we don’t know if there’s beer to be had, and even if there was it would be a two-mile hike to town and back, we motor on by.
The second and final lock on our Ohio transit is a couple of miles ahead. “Cross your fingers, maybe they’re letting boats pass over the dam here, too,” Robin says.
No such luck.
We don’t need to radio the lockmaster. It’s obvious we’ll have to lock through. There’s a veritable fleet of sailboats and power yachts milling around just clear of the entrance. I train the binoculars on each and every one, reading names off transoms, eyeballing the occupants, praying for unfamiliar boats. I look for Derek. Every time I see a sailboat the same size as Chinook my gut tightens. When I was a teenager, a blue racer slithered over my bare belly while I was sunbathing, my blanket the snake’s closest path to the marshes of the tiny lake of my grandparent’s summer cabin. It’s that kind of queasy thrill. Like I just had a close call with something that bites. And the only reason I’m safe is because the viper chose to keep moving.
All this time I’ve been looking behind me. What if he got ahead while I was watching my back? He could be in another boat. A faster boat. Or he’s working with the Coast Guard or Corps of Engineers. He called the locks. They’re waiting.
Stealing Seawind was obvious and idiotic. Three women on a boat screams for attention.
“Crap,” says Rob. I key up the mike. “Lock 52, Lock 52, this is pleasure vessel Blackout.”
We are informed in a businesslike, don’t-bother-me-with-stupid questions tone that one downbound tow-barge is currently locking through and will be followed by two more. Then, and only then, will the RVs be welcomed into the chamber for the 12-foot rise.
“Locking up sucks,” says Robin.
“Agreed.” It’s a lot more turbulent than locking down. It requires more effort and energy to keep the boat from banging into the concrete walls as tons of pressurized water floods the chamber. No “ballards” here. Older locks like this one require boaters to use their own lines, which mean one of us — probably me — will have to heave two long ropes up the wall to the attendant, who then loops the lines around fixed cleats before passing them back down. It’s an impotent wish but I still bitch to myself because the new, easier lock isn’t ready yet.
A 45-foot wooden sailboat with an emerald hull, embellished fore and aft with lavish gold scrolling parts from the waiting pack, beelines toward Blackout. There is a figurehead proudly mounted on the bowsprit. As the sailboat pulls closer we are treated to the sight of a well-crafted, topless, buxom, long-haired blonde mermaid. Her blue eyes are crossed.
“Check out that statue. I don’t know whether to laugh or barf,” says Trish.
“Don’t do either,” I advise. The carved nameplate on the curvy wineglass stern is embossed with the improbable name Elohssa Repus. The ship circles Blackout. “Good afternoon, ladies!” leers a long-haired middle-aged Ted Nugent-type dressed in camouflage fatigues, a Detroit Tigers ball cap atop his long curly red-brown hair. His companions, incongruously attired in pale yellow Izod polo shirts and impeccable creased khaki trousers, nod distantly, as if to say “we’re not with him and are certainly not hitting on you.” The patrician with artfully graying temples is handsome in a slicked-back I-hobnob-with-politicians-and-play-the-stock-market way, an older version of the other man, who is perhaps his son, or maybe a nephew.
“How much longer d’ya think we’re gonna be waitin’ on this lock? I figure I got time for at least one more,” 1980s Camo-Rocker man says, raising his Busch Light beer can in mock salute. The polo pair looks pained.
Trish pantomimes a shrug, holds a hand up to her ear. “If we pretend we can’t hear him, maybe he’ll go away,” she stage whispers. We’re both on deck organizing lines and bumpers. It’s trickier than it looks to arrange the bumpers so that they don’t squirt out or get smashed when the power of the rising water pushes the boat up in the lock and hard against the wall. The worst is placing a bumper in the wrong spot. It just dangles off the side, useless, as you shove against the wall at the pinch point, using every muscle fiber in your arms and shoulders. A bad lock-through with incorrectly placed bumpers will tighten your triceps and ache in your neck for days.
“I’ve cried in this lock,” I tell Trishie. In the dark of night I’d blindly tossed the line one, two, three, four times before it hit the sill of the sidewalk above, where the lights and kind voices beckoned. “Chinook was cut off at the knees by the current. We could only make two-three miles an hour once we got on the Ohio. So we had to travel in the dark. Other boaters guided us into the marina docks using their flashlights.”
Trish, fresh from Fern’s warning to never travel the rivers unless you can see the water ahead and both banks, is shaking her head. “That must have been so scary.”
“Derek laughs about it. He likes telling the story.” But the things that were said and done wounded me forever.
Robin remains closeted in the pilothouse at the helm. It takes more energy and skill to sit and spin, holding the vessel in stationary position in moving water, than it does to proceed forward underway. And at times like this Rob has little patience for anything, let alone “yay-hoos,” as she refers to men of Ted’s ilk.
Elohssa Repus edges closer. “Where you stoppin’ tonight?” Ted is persistent; the bold, brash approach must have worked for him somewhere along the line. I have finally worked out what the boat name is spelled backward. “Super Asshole. How appropriate,” I remark to Trishie, moving my lips as little as possible. She snickers.
“Did you name your boat after yourself?” she hollers.
“Sure did. I call it like it is, pretty lady,” he shouts back. “These two fine gentlemen here are thinking about changing her name, though. Ain’t that a pity? But I guess it won’t go over too well in, where’d you say?” he glances at the clearly uncomfortable skipper and his son or nephew. “Oh yeah, Marco Island.”
They just bought the boat and being new to sailing have commissioned this Super Asshole to pilot them down the rivers and across the Florida panhandle to Marco Island, on Florida’s West Coast.
“Funny, they seem more like the Kennebunkport type,” I say to Trish, who is not at all graciously receiving a thorough once-over from Ted the lech. She throws back her shoulders, fists her hands on her hips and gives him a hard, tight-lipped smile.
“No disrespect, Peaches. I’m just likin’ what I see.”
“You look any longer and I’m starting the meter,” she announces.
He cups his crotch. Licks his lips.
“That’s it.” Trish heads for the pilot house. “Where’s that flare gun?”
The marine radio crackles static, short-circuiting the altercation. Finally the lockmaster announces that the gates are open and we’re to file in, in our current order, “at which time I will assign you a spot. Everyone on board is to be wearing a flotation device.”
“To the Lock 53 Lockmaster, this is Misty Blue, Misty Blue, is that port or starboard tie?” asks a worried female voice from one of the yachts well ahead of Blackout.
“We have a lot of boats today, ma’am, I will advise you what side to tie up on when you enter the lock. Understood?”
“Roger that,” she utters, clearly disappointed by the lack of advance notice as well as being treated like an overly concerned novice.
“I remember her,” says Trish. “She was at Hoppies. Made that awesome crab dip. Remember when we had the cruisers’ party?”
“I remember Helen,” I say. Usually I’m bad with names, but it was written in a terrific book she lent us, White Oleander. She didn’t ask me any questions at the one potluck the rain-soaked boaters waiting out the fog at Hoppies had managed to pull together. She was focused on how tired she was of living on a boat. “Every time I need something I have to move something else out of the way to get it,” she said. “I don’t know how people do this for years and years.” The promise of winter in Florida wasn’t an adequate tradeoff for her grandkids or her house. “I miss them,” she said.
“Helen is not going to like tossing a rope 12 feet up to the sidewalk,” I say. Undeterred by our obvious lack of interest, Ted circles around one more time shouting “see you on down the road, ladies” and revs forward to cut in line in front of Chip Ahoy, Misty Blue and Garage Mahal.
“I hope they got their catcher’s mitts on,” says Trish, clicking the buckles on her personal flotation device. Blackout is equipped with the newest light model PFDs, more like parachute harnesses than traditional orange life jackets. Each has two breast-level floats on the front that automatically inflate like mini-airbags at the pull of a cord. Trish is particularly taken with her leopard-print model; wants to wear it all the time. Like most long-time boaters, Robin and I are rather blasé about lifejackets, donning them only in rough conditions or as demanded by the Lockmasters, who vary from lax to stringent in enforcing the PFD rule. This Lockmaster apparently takes safety very seriously.
Trish and I are also wearing fingerless sailing gloves, for better grip, less chance of abrasion and because, as she notes, “they look really cool.”
Elohssa Repus has already broken one rule, darting ahead of three vessels. “No cuts, Mister,” broadcasts a snarling skipper from one of the boats ahead.
This is better than Peyton Place.
“Look, he’s flipping off that boat,” says Trish, eyeing the scene with the binos.
“Oh brother. I hope he’s not going to be next to us in the lock.” Even Derek would not behave this badly.
As we clear the gates, the lockmaster requests the usual documentation info and directs us to the starboard side, right behind Elohssa Repus. I drop the fenders down, three big round orange bumpers holding us off the scummy cement wall. It only takes me two tosses to secure the bowline. “All right! Now let’s get the back line,” encourages the attendant, nodding to Trish. “Upsy Daisy!” With a huge grunt, she flings the line. It hits the lip of the sidewalk and flops back down. “Crap,” Trish mutters.
“You can do it, Trishie, just give it all you got,” I cheer her on. The second throw hits the wall, well below the mark. “Shake it off, lady, third time’s the charm!”
With a guttural “Heeyah!” Trish lets loose, rope unfurling as it flies upward, landing neatly in the attendant’s outstretched hand.
“Good one!” he says.
She’s huffing and puffing. “I’m already pooped,” she announces, picking up a boathook and preparing to fend off. My boathook in hand, I brace for the sound of the siren that announces the lift’s commencement. Robin and I have schooled Trish in the proper disco hoot “Oooh Ooh,” shaking our groove things and whipping the loose end of the line around our heads like rodeo cowgirls when the siren goes off. It breaks the tension. We have also worked up a hearty rendition of “Roll Out the Bollards.” Sounds better with three-part harmony.
“Blackout secure.” Rob announces over the radio.
We wait. There’s a problem. Elohssa Repus is drifting. Ted stands on the bow holding a single rope and arguing with someone up on the lockwall. I strain to hear.
“That’s OK, we only need one line!” he’s shouting.
The attendant is shaking his head.
“He’s not wearing a life jacket,” Trish notes.
“Oh for chrissake,” growls Robin. Don’t mess with her when she’s on a beer mission.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I apologize for the delay,” the Lockmaster announces on the radio. “We got some knuckleheads here who don’t know how to follow the rules.”
We wait around another 20 minutes, the exhaust from boat engines hazing in the chamber. Finally, a silver aluminum skiff putts into the concrete canyon, manned by two stern-looking men in navy uniforms. Fuck. Head down, I edge closer to the lockwall, wishing for one of Robin’s ball caps. I squat down below the gunnel, hidden by the pilothouse. I’ve got a sight line over the bottom rim of the windows.
One of water cops, or guards, or whatever they are, points authoritatively.
At Ted. “Out!”
I start breathing again.
Ted’s shift from rebellious to contrite is as immediate as my relief. A puffy orange life jacket is hastily procured, a second line handed up by the younger patrician, who appears to be suffering from extreme social-emotional discomfort. Either that or his puffy orange life vest is choking him. The older patrician remains ensconced in the cockpit in his puffy orange jacket, stiff with outrage.
“I’m sorry. I apologize,” Ted is falling over himself to make amends. Regardless, the sailboat is escorted out of the lock, accompanied by whistles, cheers and applause from waiting boats.
“Wow, don’t mess with the Lockmaster,” says Trish, wide-eyed again. She stands up from what she calls her “pushin’ cushion” and resumes the lock-up position.
Still we wait.
“Come on, close the damn gates,” Robin mutters darkly. “This is ridiculous.”
Ten minutes later the Lockmaster announces “Ladies and gentlemen, we sure do appreciate your patience. The knuckleheads have seen the light.”
With downcast faces, two lines and all hands on deck in life jackets, the sailboat resumes its assigned parking space on the wall in front of us.
“What a monumental waste of time,” snarls Robin. She barely chimes in on the “oooh ooh” when the siren blows.
There is no way I’ll be able to argue her out of the Big E.
Robin has a connection. She calls a dude named “Black Ray.” Has his home number. “Met him on the last trip down,” is all she will say.
We anchor out just off the channel, not too close to where the jerry-rigged floating metal dock of yore, since demolished by high water, was attached by cables to the river bottom. No telling what lies below, or just beneath the surface at the Big E. The unorthodox metal dock that was erected here for a few years before the river washed it away was cobbled together from a scrap-metal yard. The bits and pieces could have ended up anywhere in the unreadable brown water. It would be easy to hook a giant hunk of rip-rap or re-rod and lose the anchor. The riverbank here rises mountain-like, carved soft-sand cliffs, sparsely vegetated by spindly weeds and the most tenacious species of wildflowers. A rickety, narrow, impossibly canted set of 200 or more steel and aluminum steps in various states of rust, contrived from whatever was handy at the junkyard, hangs on for dear life, which is what anyone foolish enough to use it does, finding anything to grip in the absence of handrails. God only knows how Black Ray got the cases of beer down that death-trap to the water’s edge. I didn’t have time to do anything but glance over occasionally to make sure the delivery had arrived. It takes us an hour to offload from the top deck the 11-foot Boston Whaler that serves as Blackout’s dinghy. The electric hoist attached to the crane davit worked like a charm and good thing, because there’s no way we could muscle the Whaler off on our own. The Johnson outboard cranks on the first pull. “You drive,” Robin says, so I do, without mentioning that I’ve never been allowed to run Chinook’s tender on my own. It’s dark enough to turn on the red, green and white running lights as we zip the Whaler in to shore at the base of the rickety stairwell. Black Ray and another burly dude load 20 cases of beer into the dink. “Come to Mama,” Rob croons. She pays with a rolled wad of bills passed in a handshake as I steady the dink in the rocking wash of yet another passing tow-barge.
It’s bumpy, but we’re well off the shipping channel and the anchor seems to be holding without being fouled on anything. So we decide we’ll stay put for the night. There’s a day dock up in Paducah, but it’s normally packed with small bass boats and in any event for some reason the town discourages overnight guests on the waterfront.
I am handing the last case up to Trish, who then passes it to Robin for can-by-can stashing in the coolers, when the dim outline of a sailboat draws near. Ted and the polo boys again.
“Well lookee who’s here. Hey ladies! Say, gorgeous, are you tired?”
He’s talking to me.
“No, not particularly.” Even I can hear the prissy tone in my voice.
“Well then you must be in very good shape, because you’ve been running through my mind all day,” Ted says, hee-hawing like the donkey’s ass he is.
“Wow, that’s quite a line,” I respond. “Come to think of it, I am exhausted. Good night, gentlemen.”
“Aw, come on, gorgeous, don’t be cruel. How’s about inviting me over for a drink with you and your hot friend? We could have us a par-tay.” He winks. Gross.
Robin steps out of the cabin. “You need any help, Hailey? Is this guy bothering you?”
“Is it OK if we anchor somewhere in around here sir?” I hear him asking Rob as I head into the salon. It’s definitely Miller Time. “We went all the way to Paducah but there was no room at the inn, so to speak.”
“Go ahead, knock yourself out,” she says in her deepest voice, considerably cheered by the replenished barley pop reserves and her manly control of the situation. “Just make sure you’re at least four boat lengths away. And set that hook. There’ll be hell to pay if you drag down on me. Steel hulls aren’t forgiving. Neither am I.”
Nobody feels like cooking. We have the last of the Fritos, a half-pack of pepperoni slices and beer for dinner. Trish disapproves. “What’s for breakfast tomorrow? Beer, cigarettes and phlegm?”
“Awww, come on, cheer up,” Robin grabs her in a headlock and administers a noogie, which is the closest she ever gets to hugging. “We’ll clean up our act tomorrow. Promise. I’ll even eat something green, how’s that?”
“Shush,” says Trish, only slightly mollified. “Hand over one of those beers. If you can’t beat ’em …”