We awoke beneath two canopies: the Mississippi sky and our slapdash mosquito net. One was prettier than the other but I won't say which. You could tell it was going to be a long, muggy day and I was a little bit sore in the ankles, so to speak. Remember that the previous night our motor very inconsiderately cut out on us and we had to spend the night on the bank of the river just outside of the sleepy hamlet of Hamburg(er?), Illinois.
Well I was sticky and sunburnt and I could tell that other fellas weren't having any of it either so we quickly got to work trying to get the hell outta Dodge.
More on that to come, but first I have a bone to pick. Before the trip began, us fellas purchased membership in an exclusive club of worrywarts unimaginatively named SeaTow. See, SeaTow is like the AAA of the Sea (and River). For the cool price of 169 clams SeaTow promises to find you a tow 24/7 should you be caught in a sticky situation, say, if your motor cuts out like ours did. Well, it is with intense displeasure bordering on ire that I report that SeaTow did NOT live up to the hype. They could not find us a tow on the night our motor cut out and yesterday they couldn't find us a tow either and basically gave us the telephonic equivalent of a whoopsiedoosie shrug and a halfhearted Sorry Charlie. I place a hex on thee, SeaTow. From the bottom of my heart I declare: you suck major, major balls.
Anyways, back to the sticky riverside where it was quickly dawning on us that we were on our own, up shit creek with a paddle, yes, in fact two paddles, but alas, a broken motor. We set to work on our only lead, a mechanic about a mile up river named Quillard. It turned out that his name was not nearly as fanciful (Tim) and that his shop was called Quillar's, but whatever.
Quillard was kind enough to motor over to us on a Sunday and sell us a starter, which Clement expertly installed over the course of the next few hours.
With a final greasy wipe of the forehead Clement said a few prayers over the hopefully-fixed engine and we turned the key and... Nothing. Still broke. We cursed our luck and resigned to spending another night as unwilling IV bags for greedy mosquitos a la Mad Max when a piece of advice from Terry #1 popped into our heads. "You know," he'd said, floating on his paddleboard on a cool Wednesday evening, "you can always try rope starting her if she gives you trouble." The idea here is that if you wrap a rope around the main flywheel of the engine and pull hard you can manually start the bugger. Well we wrapped a piece of laundry line around the flywheel as per instructions, gave her a tug, and wouldn't you know it, the durn thing started.
We counted our lucky stars and took off like a dirty shirt, setting our sights on a marina some 20 miles away. By the time we pulled into Cedar Hill Resort it was dinnertime and our stomachs were a-growlin'. Cedar Hill Resort is less a resort and more a bar/restaurant with a dock and a large green plot of land, but seeing as we'd just barely escaped from the Pit of Despair that was the side of the river in Hamburg, Illinois, it was paradise to us. We saddled up to the bar and ordered a dram while we waited for various fried victuals to arrive. Over fried mushrooms and hamburgers cooked with a secret spice that even master-secret-recipe-diviner Bennett could not divine we traded stories with the bartender and felt easy, breezy and beautiful (Covergirl™). After a while we scooted on back to our boat, grabbed our hammocks and set up for the night. The forecast said rain but I wasn't worried; while the rest of the crew had water-repellent hammocks, I had at my disposal the cutting-edge of water-repellent technologies: a tarp. After outfitting my hammock I settled into my cloth cocoon for an early night with lightning flashing wonderfully in the distance. Snug as a bug in a rug was I.
But snug bugs in rugs don't stay snug in rugs for long. At around midnight I, Nick, aka Grommeter, awoke to a wet rump and an even wetter rumpus roaring outside. The storm was really storming and the tarp wasn't really doing much to block out the sideways torrent of rain hitting me like a freight train. "No, no, no, no, no" I repeated, as if my pleas could stop the rain from getting in. They couldn't; my rump got wetter. My mind raced: what to do? Wait it out or flee for the boat? Let me note here that the boat was a good distance away and that in my sorry state I imagined that the rest of the crew was faring well, outfitted as they were with actual rain-repellent hammocks while I, humble Grommeter, only had a tarp at my disposal. It was to be a sad, lonely flight, but flee I did.
Upon emerging from the hammock I was drenched in an instant. Thunder crashed above my head. I felt at the mercy of an omnipotent, vindictive shower. Fleeing across the field towards the boat I was the rabbit that scurries across the interstate. "Crap," I said to no one in particular.
Emerging from the boat with tent and tote in hand it occurred to me that I was carrying a bag of metal rods on a metal dock in the middle of a lightning storm. "Crap," I said again to no one in particular.
But luckily I, Grommeter, made it back to the relative safety of the restaurant patio with all vitals intact. I was setting up the tent when two familiar faces arrived: Clement and Bennett, soaked to the bone, with Piers not too far behind. They too had been sacked by the rain. Seeing as misery loves company I gave a silent cheer as we set about setting up our lodgings for the night (again). At about one in the morning we drifted off to sleep, weary and worn but blissfully dry.
We counted our lucky stars and took off like a dirty shirt, setting our sights on a marina some 20 miles away. By the time we pulled into Cedar Hill Resort it was dinnertime and our stomachs were a-growlin'. Cedar Hill Resort is less a resort and more a bar/restaurant with a dock and a large green plot of land, but seeing as we'd just barely escaped from the Pit of Despair that was the side of the river in Hamburg, Illinois, it was paradise to us. We saddled up to the bar and ordered a dram while we waited for various fried victuals to arrive. Over fried mushrooms and hamburgers cooked with a secret spice that even master-secret-recipe-diviner Bennett could not divine we traded stories with the bartender and felt easy, breezy and beautiful (Covergirl™). After a while we scooted on back to our boat, grabbed our hammocks and set up for the night. The forecast said rain but I wasn't worried; while the rest of the crew had water-repellent hammocks, I had at my disposal the cutting-edge of water-repellent technologies: a tarp. After outfitting my hammock I settled into my cloth cocoon for an early night with lightning flashing wonderfully in the distance. Snug as a bug in a rug was I.
But snug bugs in rugs don't stay snug in rugs for long. At around midnight I, Nick, aka Grommeter, awoke to a wet rump and an even wetter rumpus roaring outside. The storm was really storming and the tarp wasn't really doing much to block out the sideways torrent of rain hitting me like a freight train. "No, no, no, no, no" I repeated, as if my pleas could stop the rain from getting in. They couldn't; my rump got wetter. My mind raced: what to do? Wait it out or flee for the boat? Let me note here that the boat was a good distance away and that in my sorry state I imagined that the rest of the crew was faring well, outfitted as they were with actual rain-repellent hammocks while I, humble Grommeter, only had a tarp at my disposal. It was to be a sad, lonely flight, but flee I did.
Upon emerging from the hammock I was drenched in an instant. Thunder crashed above my head. I felt at the mercy of an omnipotent, vindictive shower. Fleeing across the field towards the boat I was the rabbit that scurries across the interstate. "Crap," I said to no one in particular.
Emerging from the boat with tent and tote in hand it occurred to me that I was carrying a bag of metal rods on a metal dock in the middle of a lightning storm. "Crap," I said again to no one in particular.
But luckily I, Grommeter, made it back to the relative safety of the restaurant patio with all vitals intact. I was setting up the tent when two familiar faces arrived: Clement and Bennett, soaked to the bone, with Piers not too far behind. They too had been sacked by the rain. Seeing as misery loves company I gave a silent cheer as we set about setting up our lodgings for the night (again). At about one in the morning we drifted off to sleep, weary and worn but blissfully dry.
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