The moonless night cast a hint of malevolence on the inlet and it brought to mind a similar blackness that descended all too quickly on a sweltering afternoon. A darkness that brought with it near lethal consequences. It was the summer of 1973 and my best friend Rory Perkins and I were on the inlet just west of the bridge. Our fishing platform that afternoon was a raft of our own making. However, it was more than mere lumber and barrels. It was a magic carpet that ushered us to adventures that profoundly shaped our lives. Yet on that summer day our raft glided us to the very edge of mortal existence. From that fragile craft, Rory and I peered helplessly into death’s cold abyss.