Branches swatted and clawed at my face and bare arms, drew blood more than once, but I wasn’t feeling anything. The second time the engine stalled, I had to tilt it out of the water to clear the tangle of roots and weeds from the prop before I could forge on. Finally in the main channel, I flattened the throttle and milked every RPM from the Yamaha, screaming back down the Wood River, knifing around dozens of sharp bends and switchbacks on the Broad and then back into Ponce de Leon Bay. I yelled for the Milligans to stay down, as streamlined as possible, then I huddled behind the console out of the rip and scream of the wind and tried to hail Rusty or Teeter on theVHF. But no one was answering. As I rounded the last bend and entered Cardiac Bay, I caught sight of the Mothership about a mile off, still anchored in the same position. A light easterly breeze was riffling the bay, pushing silvery scallops out toward the horizon like the pulses of sound waves. The last fumes of elation from our fishing expedition had burned off, and at that moment the landscape looked stark and harsh, its austere beauty a cruel hoax.
