Now I was finding this really grueling. I made the turn through sheer above average muscle ability, but this was hardly consummate seamanship. The Walter Mitty in me back at my government work desk enjoyed so immensely thoughts of doing this, but out here, now, in a dangerous, unforgiving situation, it was different. It was getting dark fast. I peered into the blackness of the shoreline.
Logs barely discernible.
The bow plunged into each trough, surging back to the surface each time. Three or four half rolls. Tolerance for risk waning. Time to call it quits. 20 minutes of glory.