Frank Hammond

And he really was on death's door, really, as a little baby.

And there was a preacher called Frank Hammond with his wife from Texas, all the way in Kent.

He was pouring down with rain.

We drove there and there was this metal roof and the rain was pouring down.

The boat rocked and pitched to the disturbance.

Frank Hammond, seated at the bow, clamped a taped hand over the side to hold himself, surprise quickening the intentness of his dark, handsome face.

He was a lithe, bronzed figure clad only in blue trunks and rope sandals.

Stroking for his college crew in years that were warm memories had padded naturally wide shoulders.

The darkness faded slowly.

He felt his feet jar on solid ground, and the terrible cold left him.

But for long moments, Frank Hammond stood rigid, his dazed mind trying to accept the strange world he had fallen into.

The landscape about him was maroon in color.