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Growing up in Detroit, then in Malacaster, I was never far from Lake Huron or Lake Saint Clair or the Detroit River. Father loved to fish. He especially loved to have me pilot a borrowed boat, so he had one hand for the trolling rod and one for a beer.
I know how to run a motorboat.
Powering up the Thames at night in our stolen boat, surrounded by the dark quays and with the city lights reflecting across the angry water, almost none of that skill is useful.
The boats Father got his hands on wallowed through mild chop. This beast has six motors in the back, and they answer the throttle like they’re ravenous for river. With all the traffic I don’t dare turn the throttle up past an eighth, and at that the boat bounces across the chop and spray spatters my face.
It must be one in the m
