1973. Summer. Late August. Humid. Real sticky like. Gnats eatin ya, mosquitoes eatin gnats while they're eatin ya, bats eatin mosquitoes, alligator gar leapin outta the river eatin bats, 8 feet high in the dark night air. Crew and I driftin down the Ohio in me trusty vessel Magic Swirlin. 8, 9 knots southwest of Ludlow, driftin further into the darkness. Of a sudden we feel the ship start to quiver a bit, then rumble, then shake. All the men hangin onto whatever’s nearby. A primordial growl. A rumble from the deep, as if the gates to Hell are openin up 60 feet below on the other side of the puddle and the whole river’s just a big whirlpool feedin us downward beyond the reach of salvation. The fear of doom, the acceptance of tragedy. As suddenly as it had started, it was over. Ship was still. Air was still. Water was still. Night was still. I’ll never forget hearin me mate Javy’s voice piercin through the stillness. “Where’s Jimmy?”