“The monkeys.” The words were deliberate and slow, like Brando as Kurtz.

“The monkeys?” I asked nervously.

“The monkeys. We can make a raft from the monkeys. We can get back to shore.”

This was my first time sailing without my priest, and there was no red phone to God on this voyage. My buddy and I had borrowed a 420 from our college’s racing club and were becalmed somewhere deep in the backwaters of Cecil County. The limp sails provided no shelter from the noonday sun, and our suitcase of Busch was dangerously low. The madness already had us in its grip.

“The…monkeys.”

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