--By T. F. Sayles
Funny how a well crafted float plan can turn into just another piece of scrap paper with one turn of the wind, one maddening monotone sentence from the NOAA weather channel, one episode too many of your sister-in-law retching loudly over the gunwale, one jammed halyard, one fouled spark plug that makes the engine just irresolute enough that, given the contrary current, you can't get her up on plane and therefore it takes you two hours just to get to the mouth of the river, which means you'll never make it to Fairlee Creek before dark, so you call your friends, Dave and Linda, who took the day off work and are already anchored in the creek, and tell them you're not going to make it and to go ahead and enjoy those ten-dollar crabcakes you dropped off at their boat yesterday (they have a fridge onboard), and you'll just duck into Rock Hall for the night, maybe find a restaurant with even better crabcakes (ha ha), and you'll call them in the morning to figure out where you can rendezvous, which you are just about to do the next morning when you run into none other than your dear old buddy Jack--yes, Jack!--whom you haven't seen in, oh, at least five years, and he's married again (I think this is the fourth) and, as it turns out, he and his wife Brie (really? Brie? Isn't that a cheese?) have their boat docked no more than twenty feet from ours, and Jack suggests that we follow them up the Chester River to his "best kept secret," a little hidey hole off Langford Creek, so we call Dave and Linda and they meet up with us at the mouth of the Chester and we all head to Jack's secret cove, which more than lives up to the ballyhoo, and we all have a marvelous time, eating crabcakes (Dave and Linda, God love 'em, had somehow abstained), drinking a pinot grigio that made us want to run an Italian flag up the halyard and sing "Inno di Mameli" at the top of our lungs, and listening to Jack tell his rowdydowdy stories and profoundly filthy jokes, and generally having the kind of jolly, peaceful, soul-warming, battery-charging night that you just can't plan for, which is my point: You can't plan these things.
I could go on, but I've already set a daunting new record for the Longest Sentence Ever Published in CBM (390 words; count 'em and weep). And at the same time I've prepared you for the theme of our feature destination story this month--Jeremy McGeary's star-crossed three-museum (theoretically) cruise out of Deltaville, "Cruising Through History, One Museum at a Time"
My work here is done.