We had landed at New Madrid during the night, landed because the captain had nosed the boat into the mud at the bank rather than pulling up to a dock. The gangways were already down by the time I got to the café and claimed a two top at the rail. I did not believe Lydia would arrive anytime soon; she seemed sound asleep when I left the room, but it seemed prudent to have a chair for her just in case. Its what married folks do.   

The air was still a bit chill when I sat, but the sun edged across the railing to my table and I warmed up quickly. I made a latte with the machine at the drinks counter (I had discovered a technique to make a drink with an extra shot of espresso) and joined the buffet line. (Food has been my challenge here on the boat. The doctor had put me on a strict diet only days before the trip, which apparently the chef has seen as a challenge to his abilities. I have resisted the biscuits and gravy, the fried potatoes with bits of pepper and onion, the acres of sweet rolls and muffins. I did, however, cave and daily have a small spoon of grits.) I got fruit, I got yogurt, I got a small portion of scrambled egg. Then, I stood before the biscuits, and the cauldron of sausage gravy. I trembled like a dog spotting a cat. Someone had left a half biscuit! A half biscuit couldn’t have too many calories with only a smidgen of gravy. It was a slippery slope. Would half a biscuit be enough? Would one biscuit make more sense?  Yes, it probably would I reasoned and put both the half and the whole on my plate. Somehow my logic did not include the option of taking only the whole and leaving the half behind. That done, I carefully ladled milky gravy with flecks of pepper and chunks of juicy sausage onto the flaky breads. I sat, knowing there was no return. I would need to do penance. Meat and salad only for supper. No bedtime cookie. I dolloped on some tabasco and dug in. Like many things in life, the idea is better than the reality. The gravy was terrible, thin and flavorless, the sausage was pellets of some leftover links rather than fresh country sausage. The black specks may have not even been pepper. I ate it anyway.

Once I had eaten my breakfast and a bit of personal crow I wandered down to the Mark Twain gallery knowing that Lydia would know where to find me. Which she did. I sat with her while she ate her own breakfast; a practical selection of fruit, bacon, and one small biscuit with butter, on the porch. We decided to get some exercise on shore, where we lounged like beached turtles until lunch time. We shared a sandwich and a cup of soup (so much for my penance) and then did some more nothing.

In the late afternoon, we made our way to the chartroom. We were scheduled for a tour of the pilot house, led by the river-lorian. He showed us how the giant smoke stacks could be lowered when the boat needed to pass under a particularly low bridge, how they were laid back horizontally along the aft deck. How the pilot house itself was lowered into the floor. When this happens the pilots steer from either of two “wings” which extend out from the deck. Most importantly, he played the steam whistle. We could see the water bubble out of the whistles driven by the steam. He warmed the whistles with a few short toots, then let go with a series of blasts that echoed across the river and the bluff above us. It was a boyhood dream.

We settled in at the aft grill, waiting for the boat’s departure at 5:00pm and the corresponding calliope concert. By 5:00 a small crowd had gathered on the bank in anticipation of the music. The sternwheel had been turning for some time, the equivalent of warming up a car before driving. The vibration was subtle, the noise of the churning water less so. The lines were retrieved, the forward thrusters engaged and we nosed off the mud and into the big muddy. The calliope squealed and the music began. I watched the bank of families, imagining being one of them, watching a riverboat disappear around the bend, the boat slowly disappearing until only the echoing music was left, until it too died away. It was a moment that resonated with my past, hopes and dreams culled from books, and later movies.

We ended the day the way we began, watching the river.

Blessings.   

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