Back in aught-seven it was, when I first apprenticed myself to Bixby to learn the piloting trade, and being wetter behind the ears than old Neptune himself and pig-ignorant besides, found myself the butt of many a crewman’s idea of humor. By way of example, one bright, hazy July morning we’d launched off from just above Cairo with an empty hold, bound for the grain markets of Prairie du Chien. After passing a placid morning amidships, I took a keen notice of ratlike Skinner, personal nemesis of mine and many another for his vicious temperament and general disdain of pants-wearing, even in the company of ladies. At semi-regular intervals, this Skinner cocked his rodent head and bobbed rhythmically in the fashion of a Vicksburger dancing the quadrille. His preferred pantsless state gave further evidence of this rhythmic movement, with a variety of impolite sways and jiggles apparent down below. At last, my curiosity topped the battlements of my cynicism, and I asked:

“What are you meant to be doing, Skinner? With the head bobs, I mean.”

“Why, I’m listening to the river, boy. It yields music to those who know how to hear.”

It brings me no credit to confess that I cocked my head in imitation of Skinner’s peculiar mannerism, upon which I heard little more than the sprightly glissando trill of the purple finches and the steady grinding of the ship’s wheel.

“Aw, you’re funning me on,” I objected at last, in a voice not entirely convinced of its own seriousness.

“Many a day, but not on this occasion,” came Skinner’s reply. “You’ve much to learn about the river life, greenhorn. It holds upwards of 4,000 songs, or 10,000 pictures of the finest detail, or any combination thereof of the two. A keen riverman can call any one of them up with the barest motion of a finger. Listen, again. Get closer, if need be. By God, we’ll make a riverman of you yet, if any agent in heaven or Earth can.”

By now, a small crowd had gathered, leaving be their particular duties to take in whatever drama mine and Skinner’s contretemps might offer. Still, the mute river declined to open its voice to me. I angled an ear briefly, then, frustrated and vexed, took up a position alongside the jackstaff, kneeling on the deck and bending double, my cocked head jutting out over the ship’s churning wake like a gargoyle standing sentry atop a pediment.

As I crouched idiotically thus, Skinner placed a firm foot on my backside and, with the merest shove, sent me sprawling headlong into the river. Aboard decks the greatest tumult of laughter arose at my hapless plunge. I swam as mightily as a Cuban swordfish to regain the deck, upon which I threw my fists forward and demanded that Skinner step up and permit me the satisfaction of a proper affray. Sure enough, he stepped forward, but not in an attitude of combat. Instead, in his hand lay the azure slab of the iRiver H10 20GB MP3 Player, which he then presented to me with mock ceremony, a trophy of sorts for enduring this most ancient of riverman’s inauguration rituals.

So this was the singing river Skinner had referred to! For once, the knavish rat had not been dissembling! Forward from that day I enjoyed, along with the iRiver H10’s MP3 and WMA playback, big color LCD, FM tuner, and Xbox 360 compatibility, the supreme satisfaction of attaining the status of a bonafide riverman, a joy which has been occasionally equalled by life’s other significances but never yet bested. I suspect a sprinkling of bilgewater shall always run in my veins, even if I were to repose amid arid Saharan dunes for the remaininder of my sojourn.

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