Colt's plan

Over fish stew and the remains of this morning's bread, Tom Colt continued his tale. He'd cruised Guernsey, Sark and Jersey in good weather before crossing to mainland Europe via the Minkies, making landfall near Ille Brehat, west of Paimpol. The coast of Brittany is notorious along that reach; peppered with lighthouses, towers and buoys, and justly so. The rocky edge of France will rip your keel off soon as look at you. I know a British naval officer who grounded his yacht when there was water on the chart and he drives warships! This casual American actually went to Les Minquiers for fun. He'd made the most of the westerlies and sailed back along the coast, heading for St Malo and the Rance there by entering the cross-Brittany canal system; Dinan; Rennes; down the Villaine to Redon but there turning right to hit the atlantic at Lorient down the river Blavet. The Scorf estuary, where that river emerges, is a nice place to hang out; he'd sailed to Port Louis and the shallow waters to Riantec before having to adjust his itinerary.
'I'd planned to see the Morbihan but the winds weren't right, so it was up the coast to Concarneau, and here we are.'
'Some trip,' I said. 'You must have a lot of confidence in your boat?'
'Boats are wonderful things, aren't they? Folks have crossed the atlantic in boats smaller than Sacagawea. You have to do your homework; thats all.'
'So, where you off to? The Med?' It seemed to best option to me, August is getting on and he'd want somewhere cosy for the winter.
'I was thinking of hacking down to Nantes. Get back in the canals and head east. You can sail right across Europe; from side to side, y'know? I reckon be on the Rhine by Fall.'
'Now I know you're mad,' I laughed. The Rhine? Germany? I imagine you're used to the cold. Why not lay her up here? Like Vannes. Bloody nice port and lots of placed to potter for days out,' I suggested. 'I did that last year. Summer up the Odet, then a nice snug marina with great French coffee and croissants on every corner.'
'Someone said you'd have it sussed,' grinned Colt. 'Anyway, boat like this, you wouldn't know what was going on outside.'
'Don't believe it,' I reached for the bottle. 'My rigging fair rattles and hums up there. If you're after a quiet life, stay clear of boats - full stop.'
He smiled and held out his glass. 'Didn't you ever want to see the alps? Or some of them great European cities?'
'Not yet; no.'
'Ah, Cap'n Treliven, the beauty of Paris, the mystery of Berlin, the style of Milan and Turin. the galleries, the theatres. Don't you ever wonder?'
'What makes you think I haven't been? Paris? Been there plenty of times and done Italy on a Motor Bike. Right now I'm sailing around the edge and it looks fine to me.'
'Well, I'm planning to go right across the middle; to the Black Sea, Istanbul - Constantinople -  by way of every stream I can find.'
I thought for a moment. At least he had a plan. 'There's a lot of them rivers run uphill,' I suggested.
'Sure, but there's a network of canals that run west to east with some mighty interesting things along the way.'
I was beginning to see more than a cowboy adventurer in Tom Colt. I weighed him up. Fit, resourceful, educated probably. Overgrown college boy? He seemed a little old for that. Rich kid wasting time? Didn't think so. I said, 'How come, Tom. Why Europe? Why now, and why a canoe called Sacagawea?'
He undid the top buttons of his faded shirt and pulled back to collar to reveal a long, jagged scar that creased his skin like a dried up river bed. A line of vicious looking white staple marks ran across his right chest and carried on around the back. I frowned.
'Iraq. First time. After you get blown out of a jeep doin' sixty, you kinda take stock. Life is for living, Cap't and you're a long time dead,' He buttoned up and swigged his wine, slapping the glass decisively down on the fidded saloon table. 'I'll be going for now but I'll be seeing you again. You and your black boat.'
The crew let him slide of the settee and he courteously thanked her for supper. A moment later we shook hands and he clambered over the gunwales into his canoe; with a salute he was gone. I stood in the cockpit, finishing off the bottle and listening to his whistling fading away in the darkness. Thomas Edson Colt. Interesting.