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A sheriff’s deputy and Beardsley and Chase Vaughan, another wildlife officer, met him there.

It was filthy, and packed as if for the apocalypse, with tarps and trash bags and Army-surplus duffels.

My neighbor, an adventurous spirit who once pedalled a bicycle from New York to Cocoa Beach, had spotted the unusual traveller in the water and waved him ashore.

Righting the boat without severing the ropes was impossible.

Finding no body, Sanders called 911, loaded what bags he could onto his skiff, and towed the canoe inland, via a narrow canal, passing the rickety docks and large oyster middens of a shellfishing operation called Frog Island.

Receipts and other assorted documents bore notes and inscriptions, written in blue and black ink: If you allow poverty to hold you back, it means you have neither imagination nor will.