There

ahead: it looks like a warehouse complex right down on

the river, an assortment of barn red, dirty gray,

corroded metal buildings. Nothing on our chart indicates

a factory or landing here, and we wonder idly what it is,

or was.

That's when we realize it's

moving. A city block-sized lash-up of barges, being

pushed down the Tennessee River by a super tug studded

with antennae and looking like it means business.

Tugs may be drab or

brightly painted - we saw a veritable wedding-cake

of enamel-bright yellow and white layers - and

usually have a name: Bearcat, Capt. A.O. Holmes, Mitzi

Lou.

The stationary appearance

of a barge is deceptive, and can be deadly. The

downstream-bound especially throws up only the tiniest

ripple of foam at the leading edge of its straight, boxy

bow. Nor does the tug itself churn up much wake, and the

whole contraption is so massive it appears to be standing

still.

But moving it is,

inexorably. As long as we give it wide berth, it is

merely one more interesting sight along the way, and,

surprisingly, leaves only the slightest turbulence in the

water behind it.

Whoever said "Never

look back," however, was not piloting a small boat

on a large river.

The barge that got my

attention came up behind us while I was at the helm.

Despite reminding each other regularly to check for

overtaking traffic, we missed that one altogether. Never

saw him until I happened to glance out the window on our

port side where he was drawing silently abreast of us.

There was plenty of

distance between us; he'd have radioed or sounded his

horn if he'd thought I was too close to his path. Still,

he set my heart to pounding, and not with his good looks.

I could so easily have drifted into his path.

There is absolutely nothing

these behemoths can do to avoid a straying pleasure boat.

He was making about twice our 4.5 knots, riding high and

empty on the river. My heart continued racing until he

pushed gradually ahead of us, around the next bend, and

out of sight.

Didn't help at all to have

Dave retell a story from one of his boating magazines,

about a couple whose sailboat slipped its anchorage one

night and drifted into the path of a barge on the

Intracoastal Waterway in Florida. The barge master never

saw the sailor, never even knew his monster craft had

crushed the boat and its sleeping occupants.

Small boats cause us the

most grief on the river. Forgive me, fishermen, for that

which I do not understand, but I'd have to list bass

tournaments right up there with bullfights and

bungee-jumping among my top Most Mystifying So-Called

Sports. What's "sport" about tearing around at

60 miles an hour, roiling the surface of a tranquil lake,

throwing fumes and spray into the air, shattering a

Sunday morning with a 150-horse two-stroke snarl? I don't

get it.

But I guess they don't

"get" our pleasure in gliding at walking speed,

quiet enough to hear bird song and a mallard's wing

cutting the clear air.

Annoying as they are, when

they're up on a plane the hot dogs in glitter-boats don't

rock us the way the cabin cruisers do. A few know their

wake is traumatic and slow down appropriately, but more

proceed with disregard - or malice - toward

smaller craft.

Whichever of us is at the

helm takes counter-action by turning straight across the

wake; the other steadies dish rack and oil lamp, blocking

the laptop with a hip.

Seems like the Alice will

never come to rest again, but she does, and we resume

course, dreading the glint of sunlight off the next

approaching cruiser.

Weekends are the worst.

Like most people on a retiree's calendar, we try to

schedule our adventures for mid-week and stay holed up on

the weekend, whether sightseeing, camping, or exploring

rivers in our little trawler.

These days, however, school

groups keep worthwhile destinations jammed during the

week. Kids are noisy, pushing and squealing, far more

intent on swiping each others' snacks than in viewing the

rare side-necked turtle in the aquarium display.

But although we wonder how

much they really get out of such outings, their energy

and insouciance are infectious. We'd rather see a

stampede of school-kids coming toward us than a bus

disgorging a senior citizens' group in front of a

restaurant.

Bless their hearts: no

longer hung up on what other people will think, their

behavior and dress are sometimes appalling. In garish

nylon and coiffed for the day, the women smoke and talk

louder than they do at home. Their menfolk, distracted by

their own earnest conversations or maybe trying to tune

out the women, mill right along with them. Heaven help

the outsider who tries to cut through the blockade they

throw across a sidewalk.

Sometimes the traveler's

best option is just how to stay out of the way.

Tugs and barges, fishermen

and power boats, students or senior citizens on a frolic

- sometimes it's wise to steer a course at the edge

of the channel and let the crowd hurry by.

And never look back.

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