From the Galley

The captain of Her Bounty found a way to collapse the main mast, tucking it down in segments so that the sloop could motor down the Yahara under the cement bridges.  It's not that the lakes took that much wind anyway, he figured, so even the small motor on back could direct the boat over any of the largest of the open patches of water if necessary.  And, oh well, he wasn't a real captain anyway, so that when he found himself in the awkward position of trying to explain his contraption to real sea-men, he could merely send it off with a wink and a nod and distract them with one more toddy at high breeze.  Near the end of the river a small cove appeared where a peninsula formed one of the oldest parks in the city.  He had committed himself to sailing the contours of both Mendota and Monona two years ago as a mere lark, having no Naval background, no understanding of the ways of water other than the raw intentions of feeling the wind and knowing water like dreams themselves.  One day Her Bounty would graduate to a sea yacht he hoped but for now it was all about the mind of blue and white and the food aromas creeping up from the compact galley below.  He sailed alone. He cooked for himself.  The lake chain was like a new living room so that when he saw the next sailboat swap from jib to Genoa in his direction, he set a counter sail and took the cross wind the other way and skimmed past the bright white architecture of the Monona Terrace like a racer dodging buoys, only the wings of gulls able to keep up.