Between me and the relief of being able to stretch out my leg and work out the cramp are five exhausted bodies stacked like cord wood in a very small space. I just bite the pillow and wait it out. Eventually sleep comes as I am thinking that here is just a little glimpse of what sailing life must have been like on this river before cell phones, handy marinas and German-built engines. Even with this near mishap, Mike and I are convinced our journey on the river is blessed. We have enjoyed remarkable weather and met a legion who live, work and play on the Hudson River.
Every time there is a setback or abrupt change of plans, it all seems to go for the best in the end.
Witness Sunday morning. We rise to an orange sky, a poor omen. Bass fishermen in pairs in those high-powered flatboats are studiously flipping yellow lures under the vegetation along the shoreline. We come across perhaps a dozen bass boats, reminding us this is bass tournament country. Serious work for serious fishermen.