I enter the bayou with three racing vessels on my Stern. I turn to take the wakes. The boat wakes throw my boat up in the air and I paddle through a six foot screen of water. The land behind me is maybe eight inches above the water line, I can rest my elbow on the bank. The working oil rig boats gave me hellish boat wakes. Some of the boats gave me low wakes, some didn't. I was used to the wakes at this point in my journey, but this was tight quarters.
The sky is turning a dark purple with a menacing dark blue. A sheet of rain and high winds hits me along with these oil rig boats. I can barely see through my eye glasses. I give them a quick wipe with my bandana.
Diary entry from the book {Prometheus Lives} by Artist Troy Richard Thomas
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