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He was investigating a missing boater, he said, and explained that some duck hunters had found a canoe and that my phone number had turned up among the gear in the boat.
He wanted to know where it had come from—he hoped, in fact, that I might be the canoeist. It had come practically from Canada, I explained—from Plattsburgh, New York, twenty miles south of the border.
Conant had paddled past my house, on the Hudson River a dozen miles above Manhattan, on Labor Day morning. As I was about to take my toddler son kayaking, a neighbor called out that there was a man in his house I might want to meet. A red canoe was tied up at the base of the seawall. 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. Inside, Conant was sitting at the head of a table, facing down a kingly spread of caviar, sausage, doughnuts, and vodka, and holding forth for several guests. He was headed for Florida, he said, and was two months into a journey that he figured would take six more.