"NOW" is how he started most of his sentences. Short, quick and loud. Sage advice. Like, "Now. You go after them librarian types. They may SEEM quiet...but they're WILD in bed." I remember him banging on the door to my room on the Baton Rouge 'cause a tornado had been sighted, and he was going to get the boat ready to back into the storm (what seemed to work for the Julia Belle). Five minutes later, he had fired the boiler, had me and Orlando on the lines, soaking wet and shivering, and he was in the pilot house ready to take us out. I remember when the phone rang on the Baton Rouge. He was calling from the Illinois side of the River. His throttle cable had broken and he had landed his water plane, full throttle, into the Mississippi and had paddled to shore. I drove the luggage van over to pick him up. When he saw I was dressed up, he figured I was getting ready for a date, so instead of making the young lady wait, he drove us both back to the Iowa side, dropped me off, wished me luck and drove back to fix the cable. And I remember when I left the boat. He and I sat in the Texas deck alone and talked. Finances were hard, and he was going to sell the Julia Belle in the coming year. "Wish I could say you'd always be welcome, but I don't know what next year's going to bring. If we're still here, you've got a home." That was the last time I talked to Denny. Age and loss. Hard lessons. Too early to tell what supposed to be learned.
Chris Thieme