I remember it somewhat hazily, that evening back in May of 2001. Aboard were our guide, Wayne Aldridge and fellow angler Doc Hatton, myself and a certain stowaway. It was well after dark as we arrived at Stockport, our rods long since stowed after a fine day on the water. By this point in time, even our cigars had been exhausted. Looking through the darkness of night ahead to the take-out, we could see several flashlights. Seems that we were the last boat to come off the Delaware that night and there was quite a line of drift boats, guides and anglers waiting to get back to their camps and homes. What to do while waiting? A brilliant thought came to mind. Yours truly had stowed a full bottle -well almost full, save for a couple shots at lunch- of Booker’s Bourbon. Out came the bottle. It was passed liberally between both Doc and myself and was also offered in the same fashion to perfect strangers, fishermen all. Maybe that fact meant they weren’t strangers after all. The details of the day began to fade as the bottle grew lighter. At one point as Wayne brought his Dodge down to the water’s edge, empty trailer rattling along the dirt road, I remember Doc mumbling something about a dead soldier. And there is was, an empty bottle of Kentucky’s finest having fought valiantly but to no avail. Or so we thought until the next morning…..