High And Dry

“I think we’re stuck.” Fred announced, happily, from the front of the boat.
His next communication: “Lemme see”, was proceeded by the sound of pockets emptying, then followed immediately by a splash and the sound of thrashing water.

“Yep. I knew it. Stuck, Jimmy! Terribly, terribly stuck!”, he continued, sounding elated.

“I reckon I’ll have to matriculate us off this here sandbar we’ve found.”

A little grunting and straining and the 38-year-old jonboat, purloined from Uncle Buster, once again floated under its own power.

Fred flopped back into the boat chuckling to himself and gave me the “hammer down” signal – a vague tilt of the hand indicating your fellow boater’s willingness to die, should the need arise, and we were once again underway.

The Chattahoochee River, dark-30, is no place to be at full-throttle, but when there’s smoke on the water and the motor is running like it ought - who am I to let off?

Hammer Down.