The Canoeist

I heard a soft bump alongside a bit earlier on and stuck my head out of the hatch to see what had contacted. I saw a right hand set of white knuckles gripping the gunwale, as a rat's tail of old blue polypropylene flew through the air in my direction. The canoeist was making fast, unsteadily and at arms reach. His boat, an open fifteen footer with a lug sail, was rocking under his feet but agile as a monkey, he was up and over The Promise's side in a trice. He was nut brown and sinewy and grinning like a chad; he stuck out his hand and introduced himself simply as "Tom Colt."

'How d'you do Mr Colt,' I replied seriously.

'I saw your boat and couldn't resist,' he smiled. 'Real pretty.' His American accent rolled like the plains of Dakota.

I nodded. 'Kettle's on. Take a seat.'

So it was I came to meet Thomas Edson Colt. Canoeist, Mountaineer and man of the New World. Interesting.