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November 29, 2014, I received a phone call from an officer of the North Carolina Wildlife Resources Commission named John Beardsley.He was investigating a missing boater, he said, and explained that some duck hunters had found a canoe and that my phone number had turned up among the gear in the boat.I mentioned that he had e-mailed me a month or so earlier, in late October, and sounded healthy and happy, in spite of the fact that waves had drowned his laptop. Conant was a Navy veteran, and he suffered from gout and high blood pressure. The father called his friend Grover Sanders, who had been hunting ducks nearby.

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He wanted to know where it had come from—he hoped, in fact, that I might be the canoeist.

It took me a second or two to realize that the boat must have been Dick Conant’s.

Receipts and other assorted documents bore notes and inscriptions, written in blue and black ink: If you allow poverty to hold you back, it means you have neither imagination nor will.

Idea ~ Sci-Fi: USB port from human nervous system directly into Internet.

It was filthy, and packed as if for the apocalypse, with tarps and trash bags and Army-surplus duffels.

My neighbor, an adventurous spirit who once pedalled a bicycle from New York to Cocoa Beach, had spotted the unusual traveller in the water and waved him ashore.I suggested that Beardsley check the local library, or perhaps a dive bar, where Conant might be raising eyebrows with his story about nearly getting run over by a barge one night on the Mississippi. “It was flipped over and hung up in them stumps,” he recalled.He was referring to the cypress knees that perforate the northern shores of the sound, giving it the color of tea.Inside, Conant was sitting at the head of a table, facing down a kingly spread of caviar, sausage, doughnuts, and vodka, and holding forth for several guests.He was headed for Florida, he said, and was two months into a journey that he figured would take six more.If you asked Conant about his experiences on the country’s waterways, he would grin sheepishly, pause, size up your listening capacity, and then let go with a monologue as unstoppable as a river. Well, anyhow, he was just finishing up a missionary trip up in Alaska.

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