I spin a mile downstream of Hadley’s and

Head south back the narrow waterway toward the boathouse.

Dense fog today a denseness stifling all sounds but the

Plop and poof of blades and a cedar hull’s whispered glide.

Sweaty tired and at peace when

I sense something or feel or hear it I’ll never know

What causes me to stop full for a body-twist look

Beholding the gloomy face of a barge bearing down at 50 meters.

In a blink I turn 90 degrees to starboard then two quick strokes

Toward rotten pilings clear the way for a metal monster filled with gravel

Pushed by the good tug Vicki B to pass.

Adjustment port-ward puts me parallel for the great wake that hits now.

So. Fast it happens.

No time to think.

Reactions borne of a last-second bucket winner and

English shot across a ping pong net that left Bullet Bob in a heap.

Tools forged long ago.  

© 2026 Don Owen Costello. All Rights Reserved