The Real Deal

Sunday morning, we launched our kayaks in southern Indiana and paddled upstream on the Ohio River. We had the boat ramp to ourselves, which wasn’t surprising considering the wind-driven sleet.

That slackened and softened to rain by the time we made our turn and headed back for the ramp. Still deserted. However, as I was racking up my kayak, I heard a bass drawl behind me, “Purty small for a fishin’ boat.”

I affixed a smile on my face before turning around. Rule number one, never mess with the locals. The further you get into the sticks, the more bucolic witticisms you draw about your kayaks. There’s nothing to be gained by showing anything but good nature in response.

“I’m after small fish,” I replied. He chuckled and I stared, trying not to be obvious about it. This was no ordinary specimen. I might’ve stumbled onto an icon here, or vice versa.

His ride was a vintage Lincoln Mark IV, circa 1970s. Massive body, hard edges, vinyl roof with opera windows and a hood you land small aircraft on. It was showroom condition. Someone spent a lot of time sweating over this car and I doubted if it was the driver.

He was mid to late 60s with a healthy bulk in a relaxed but somehow regal posture. He lived well. He wore a straw boater and a cowboy style yoked shirt that I’d bet didn’t come from a discount store. I couldn’t seem them but I’d bet there was a pair of hand-tooled boots under the dash. He probably had to angle his hand to pay tolls because the diamond in his pinky ring would be a tight fit through the window opening.

We bantered a bit without introduction seeming necessary. The tacit assumption was that I should know who he was, if not by name. He owned the local bank, grain silo, funeral home or other economic mainstay of the area. He wasn’t the local mayor, county commissioner, sheriff or whatever, but ran the ruling party and decided who was. They received their marching orders from him. He didn’t have to introduce himself, it was self-evident in his self-assured manner.

When he was satisfied he knew what we were up to and that I recognized his station, he gave a polite goodbye with a slight movement of his hand and rolled away at an unhurried rate. Matt, one of my fellow paddlers, had been dipping in the icy river to test out his wetsuit: the answer to the mathematical problem, what is the difference between 32 (Matt) and 62 (me)? He came over to me as I watched the Mark IV exit the far end of the lot. “Who was that?”

“The real deal,” I replied. “The real deal.”