Every boater and his cousin is out on the Hudson River on this fourth of July when I slide in off of the dock in Athens. The DEC has put in a new, wonderful dock there making entry a lot of fun. Just east is the dredge-created island, Middle Ground Flats. The sun is high, and far too hot. There’s a whitewash of cloud covering a too-blue sky. What I tell myself is that for most of these boaters this is their first time on the water this year. This makes them happy but perhaps unskilled boaters. And, given that it’s the fourth of July it’s also possible they are drunk. I paddle, keeping to the shallows on the western side of the river.

The water is murky brown, and turbulent from the wake of boats zipping by. There are boats towing children on floating tubes and boaters loitering as people drop a fishing line in the water. There are jet skis galore, making circles in the water. And almost no sailboats. But most are mid-sized motorboats, shoving purposefully north or south.

As I paddle I look at the wisp of clouds in front of me and think: I don’t know anything about clouds. And yes, then I sing to myself, softly…

(I look up at home that I was looking at wispy cirrus clouds then later puffier cumulous clouds; I still, however, know nothing about love. I mean clouds.)

This stretch of the water, from Athens on the west bank and Hudson on the east is a particularly wild stretch of the river. The train tracks scoot inland leaving the banks green, and on the western side marshy with cattails. I listen for birds and in the heat of the day hear only the obvious red winged blackbird.

I am paddling north looking for a particular boat. And an hour and a half in I see it. Low in the water, moving more slowly than the playful motorboats. A gentle line. A working boat. It’s the Riverkeeper boat, the R. Ian Fletcher. The captain, my friend John Lipscomb leans out the window and I stick out my thumb. He idles the boat, then leans over to steady my kayak as I hoist myself aboard. There’s little time for hellos as he returns to the controls and points us south.

John (who I wrote about in an earlier post this spring) is out on a mid-summer patrol of the river that extends north above the Troy dam to Waterford. He’s been on his boat for a few days, taking scientists and activists on board as he checks water quality, and in general keeps a keen eye on the river.  I am the only hitchhiker he’s picked up on this trip.

“You know you’re the only one out here working today,” I say, standing next to him at the wheel, scanning out low over the water. (the photo above is the view from his controls)

He looks at me and gives me a smile that says, Don’t remind me. But it also says, Of course I am. He has worked every day since March. John works for the river.

There’s a line of plastic bottles lining one side of the boat. “Pee samples?” I ask.

“Good news,” John says. “Your Tivoli reach is cleaner.”

Earlier in the year, the water samples (which are part of a larger long-term study) off of my village had had unacceptably high levels of enterococcus.

A boat wooshes past and I wave.

“OK, let’s get this waving straight,” John says. “First, you can’t wave from inside the boat, because no one will see you.” He sticks his hand out the open sides and tips his hand. It’s not so much a wave as a palm facing outward. “This is fine, this is what guys do.”

I laugh.

“You can do this,” he says. He tips his hand a bit. “But not this,” he says waving his hand back and forth. “That’s fluttering. Birds flutter.”

“Got it,” I say, pleased with my waving instruction. I put my hand out the window and wave madly at a passing boat. John pretends not to notice.

We head south at a steady 7 knots, John and I chatting about the river, about my book, about work, about family. Though I only get to see John a few times a year, usually when he docks in Kingston, we talk like family. His mother and mine were best friends, two French women who married American men. While we talk we throw a French word in here and there, acknowledging that tie. But we’ve forged our own tie through this river, and that’s what we focus on.

Right away I jump into the news that Cuomo wants to shut down the nuclear power plant, Indian Point. This is an issue that has kept Riverkeeper focused for years and I know it’s something John cares about. I’m excited about this, taking the news at face value. But John isn’t celebrating. He’s too smart to the ways of politicians. First, what the governor can do isn’t so direct, he explains. And, isn’t it curious that this announcement comes a few days after he states that there will be fracking in New York. It’s as if the environmental issues are being balanced out: one good, one bad. I feel stupid for not seeing the bigger picture and roll into a tirade about how hydrolic fracturing, even if done outside of the state parks, or outside of Manhattan’s water supply, will affect water everywhere.  I don’t need to convince John of anything here. (Some environmental thinkers believe that if Indian Point is shut down it will create more pressure to frack as New York City needs power. I don't think these are the only two options.)

We carve in on the eastern side of Middle Ground Flats. A few years ago I paddled out to the Flats from Hudson on a hot summer evening. The island was alive with campers, and with those who had set up rogue encampments on the island. There were small shacks and tents, signs stolen from land and posted to oak trees announcing a Narrow Bridge, where there is none. A One Way sign where there are no roads. A green sign that labels this is Rayville, when there is no ville. Most of it had a quirky, fun feel to it. And some of it, like the bus seats left to rot in the sun, felt like a slum. Since then, the DEC has come in to claim the land and to clean it up. This didn’t happen without a dispute as some felt that this former underwater land created from dredge belonged to all. (photo is of the earlier Middle Ground Flats)

Despite the clean up, there are still a few shacks on the island, and a half dozen boats are anchored on the northwestern side. People splash in the water, and a few grills send off the smell of roasting burgers.

In front of us a small motorboat languishes. Three men have wooden ors in the water, stroking toward the Hudson dock. John sidles up to them. His precision in placing his boat in the water is impressive. He’s close enough that we can speak, but not so close as to rock the already struggling boaters.

“Doesn’t look good,” he says as a way of greeting.

We learn they need to get to Catskill, where they have their trailer. John tells them we’ll tow them south. They look wonderfully relieved as they throw us a thin rope.

And off we go, continuing downriver.

I tell John about one of my students at Bard College who heard him speak, who was  motivated to form a clean up club for the Tivoli Bays. John is a story teller. He’s got a great sense of pacing and a terrific sense of humor. And great scoops of outrage. So to listen to one of his stories is to want to take action then and there, to do something for the river. That’s what got my student, Gleb. He organized a clean up in the spring.

“What did you pull out?” he asks.

“Styrofoam.”

“What color was it?”

“Blue-green,” I say.

“Dock foam.” He gives me the dimensions of the huge hunks of foam I pulled out.

“That’s it. And bottles. Lots of bottles. I tried to do a sociological study from the bottles,” I say. “I wanted to show that Bud drinkers toss off more bottles than those who drink Stella. But it doesn’t work that way. Smart water drinkers litter just as those who drink Arizona Ice Tea.”

John laughs, and we talk about how garbage ends up in the river, and not always because people toss stuff overboard. It runs off from land. Boaters lose their buoys that they let drag in the water. We see a few, and scoop up. And some of it comes into the river through our sewage system. He tells me about all the condoms he saw when he was patrolling the Gowanus with a reporter on board. “Did you do a sociological study of those condoms?” I ask.

I spy an osprey nest on one of the channel markers, and look for baby osprey. A boat parade pushes north, flags waving. There’s a few motorboats and one beautiful lobster boat. “I want one of those,” I say. Being on the river makes me want a dozen boats.

“Riverkeeper, are you towing?” a voice asks over the radio. All of the boats slow as they pass us with our tow.

We wave. I get the wave right.