William Turst had driven the SW sector of the Wisconsin River on many occasions and in different vehicles, but never in a boat. He memorized the 9 roads and 3 railroad bridges that crossed and was concerned about the clearance on the first set of tracks. Chad approached the crossing at a slow speed because each support had generated a sand bar in front of it. It was like threading a string into a needle, but patterns emerged, and they cleared the lowest one with 3′ to spare. As the bridges fell behind the skiff’s progress and the outboard guzzled gallons of gazo-lean, the crew took notice of female canoeists in skimpy suits. In tow was a boyfriend and a case of “love,” otherwise known as beer. How many sailors were conceived on sandbars at 2AM? As the afternoon heated up and sandwiches were consumed, the journey lost some of its luster while used gasoline evaporated into the atmosphere. A stop in Muscoda sent Chad walking for more petrol and, upon returning, a decision was reached. It was going to be another 15 more miles to Boscobel and beyond the halfway point. The tired 2 agreed to end the day there at 4PM. The human brain can only tolerate so much beauty. Arriving in a protected bay, the skiff was beached, and the 2 river rats were enroute to find a watering hole in the bowels of Boscobel, Wisconsin on a hot Saturday in June. Adventures require board meetings, and beer is the approved celebratory drink of nautical explorers. They located a palace of liquid pleasure during the first summer of COVID restrictions and the place was nearly empty except for a bubbly bartender, the mayor, and a few alcoholics. Bill called his friends near Madison and gave their location to Guy. With Kim following in her car, the married couple expected to arrive around 5:30PM with Bill’s truck and trailer in tow. The party was on schedule for 6PM, which coincided with a meat raffle that was going to take place, here: in this 1940’s style, small-town tavern. 

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