But now the canoe is buffeted by a gusty wind from the southeast. As I round Hog Island, the canoe is hammered. Its nose slaps loudly in the troughs between 2-foot waves. It yaws and rolls crazily. Sheets of water slide over the gunwales.
Whitecaps explode against the bow.
I keep paddling, but my course becomes a zigzag. My speed drops. Landmarks on shore begin to crawl by. I can't see the river's far side for a fog that descends on the water. For all appearances, the water around me is no longer a river.