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Taming the Mighty Mississippi Three Cylinders at a Time

We put in at what I will call, Larson's Harbor, a way of saying it that is much neater than Larson's Harbor.  As a working man's version of a yacht harbor, it offers an inexpensive way to launch a boat.  Part of the dock at the ramp must have floated away during the forty day and nights of rain that only Noah and Larson survived.

Michael was up from Tucson on a visit, and he, Carol, and lifelong friend, Chris, went down to the river in boats.  Last summer, when Michael visited, a nasty thunderstorm convinced us not to take the boat out.  This year, we had perfect weather.

And I also had a new auxiliary motor to augment the little two-cylinder, diesel inboard.  Six snarling horsepower hung on the transom, for better maneuvering, for trawling, and for motor insurance.

After following the advice of the expert who sold bait, we weaved back and forth around the points sticking into the river, and finding nothing, at first, pulled up to a restaurant for lunch.  Then, after a dessert to celebrate Carol's birthday, we went back to every point in sight.  After several hours of weaving back and forth around the points, and finding nothing, at last, it was back to Larson's Harbor.  The dock had not returned.  There were no fish in the harbor, either.  There was, though, a Caucasian who explained that he knew the real reason for Michael and Carol and Chris' reasons for lingering on the dock to fish after the boat had gone:  they were there to make off with the rest of the dock, probably.

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