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Show RIVER like a wild mustang. Waves broke over the bow and washed back into the cabin. We wallowed and shook through the crazy water till the cabin began to disintegrate. The barrels clanked and the beams groaned. It seemed that the whole contraption must soon dissolve into its various parts. Steering from the cabin top, I could look directly down at the water as we rolled and pitched along. The weather had cleared enough for hordes of yachts to come streaming out past the breakwater of the marina, and they sailed around us like curious seagulls. One sloop came alongside us and the crew tossed us two brews. The beer raised our spirits enough to brave the last miles. It was five or six miles from the head of the canal to the yacht club, and if we would have had to go another mile the raft would have broken up into loose barrels and broken wood. As it was, we eased in behind the breakwater (just in time!) and tied up to the dock of the yacht club restaurant. ^ We began to clean up and dry out. I drove some nails into the cabin and made the raft appear to be in one piece, though structurally our water-borne home had about had it: our floatation barrels were battered and we rode many inches lower than we had in Rock Island. Still, we loved the raft and wanted to make her look as good as we could. We'd worked for about an hour when two prosperous young couples came strolling up the dock, clean and dressed as only Southern aristocrats of long standing can dress. The men, a doctor and a lawyer, both had French names and both were clearly loaded with alcohol and money. The beautiful belles they had in tow had honey-thick accents. They stopped and looked at the raft and asked about our trip. We told them all about it and they were quite charmed. The doctor said to the lawyer, "You know, Tom, this wouldn't make a bad ski jump." -106- |