A boat that has been clawing through a rough chop at two knots or, at times, less seems absolutely fleet when its speed rises to 3.5 knots, and so rise the spirits of the grumbling skipper.
Alone on Saturday, I proved to be poor company for myself in the first six hours of the voyage through the near-gale. No one enjoys being stuck with a whiner.
But then the direction of the seas bent a bit to the south, and it was possible, huddled under the dodger, to keep watch for other traffic without enduring what had been the constant jarring when Robin slammed into a steep wall of Chesapeake Bay water.
Maybe a janitor accustomed to confronting filthy public restrooms feels the same when he's promoted to tend the seldom-used facilities in the top-floor corner office.
My mood grew warmer. Robin passed Worton Creek, and the current began to change, and the boatspeed over ground rose steadily. I sat stoically, but the whining had ended.
Just a few miles more, off Still Pond, we were cranking along at over five knots. I smiled.
By the time we passed Howell Point, just south of Betterton, the sun was flashing with greater frequency through slots in the overcast. Six miles later, at Turkey Point, my chest swelled as the sun's rays fanned out low in the sky behind Robin.

Having taken this picture, my joy in boating was fully restored. Robin motored up the Elk River toward the Chesapeake and Delaware (C&D) Canal, doing 7.5 knots over the bottom. A fellow in a small, red fishing boat trolled his rig across our bow and waved. I got a call from Monica, who was relieved that I was now only five or six miles from the day's destination, Chesapeake City. The fisherman in the red boat returned, slowed and slid his side window back to extend a greeting. I didn't see him before he had passed Robin, but we managed to acknowledge each other before he, my only personal contact on the water all day, sped ahead.
I set out my dock lines, looping them over the port side lifeline, in anticipation of securing to the free town dock at Chesapeake City, where Tom Gilmore was to meet me.
It is three miles from the canal entrance off the Elk to the town dock in Engineer's Cove. About half way there, I looked up to a marvelous and surpising scene: One hundred turkey vultures, flying west as a group, were overhead. One of them flying on the left flank of the formation turned to his or her right, crossed through the flock, then circled right again to fly beside a companion of his selection.
Turkey vultures, if you've never seen them at close range, are extraordinarly homely creatures, with what appear to be featherless heads like that of a turkey. But now I saw these birds in a different light, as a social group, apparently linked individually with one another. The sight gladdened my heart, and with my bum left hip I scrambled below to get the camera. The battery was weak, and when I finally got the camera to work, most of the vultures had passed. I shot anyway and got this poor photo.

The black specks above the boom gallows are some vultures.
A few moments later, the gray steel Chesapeake City Route 213 bridge came into view, about one mile ahead. It was 4:35 p.m., roughly, just before sunset. Through a slot in  the clouds, the sun sent a shaft of light and, for a moment, created for me a bridge of blazing gold.

 The vultures and the golden bridge were more than sufficient repayment for what, at times, had been a rough day afloat.