Bob stepped back and gave the boat an encompassing sweep with his eyes. “I think that might be it,” he said pensively. “I’ll figure the square footage of the sail and that should give me the final answer.

“But you better be right,” he announced as he looked up with a grin, “’cause you’re gonna be the one to take her out on her maiden voyage.”

“I’ll be glad to, Bob—as long as you ship aboard as admiral.”

“All right,” he replied with a short nod. “So, now that’s settled, come have a seat and tell me what’s on your mind. You didn’t come here just to admire a boat.”

Bob led the way to a corner of the shop that was set up as a lounge area. A few old deck chairs were arrayed around an irregularly shaped table made of a single slab cut from what must have been a huge cypress log—I guess the one Bob had used to build his boat. Off to the side was a counter with a sink and a two-burner gas stove top. Bob pointed to a coffeepot that sat perking on the stove and raised an eyebrow. I shook my head no and had a seat as Bob poured himself a cup and then joined me at the table.

That slight amount of movement had winded my friend, and for several seconds after sitting, he held the oxygen tube closely beneath his nostrils, gasping like a beached fish. At last he looked up and gave me a sheepish smile.

“Getting old is not for the weak. I suggest you avoid it if at all possible,” he joked. He took another deep breath and then asked, “Now what is it you want to talk about?”

“There are a couple of things I need your advice on.” I then told Bob the story of my visit to Effingham County. It sounded, in recitation, even weirder than the experience had actually seemed at the time. Bob sat quietly as I spoke, sipping his coffee, and now and then emitting a noncommittal, “Uh-huh.”

As I finished my tale I found myself leaning forward in the chair with my arms braced tensely on the table. Relaxing my pose, I sat back and crossed my legs. Bob was silent a few more moments. He was staring fixedly at a spot on the wall behind me, but I could see his mind working. He spoke at last.

“You’ve stepped off into some craziness there—you know that, don’t you?” He gave me a sharp look.

“I believe so,” I replied.

“So why don’t you just withdraw and declare victory? It worked for Nixon and Kissinger.”

“No.” I shook my head in response. “I gave my word to the mother—Joree—that I would do what I could.”

“Well, right now you have precious little to go on, so what does your gut tell you?” He solicited.