By SALLIE SATTERTHWAITE
Lifestyle Columnist

There ahead: it looks like a warehouse complex right down on the river, an assortment of barn red, dirty gray, corroded metal buildings. Nothing on our chart indicates a factory or landing here, and we wonder idly what it is, or was.

That's when we realize it's moving. A city block-sized lash-up of barges, being pushed down the Tennessee River by a super tug studded with antennae and looking like it means business.

Tugs may be drab or brightly painted — we saw a veritable wedding-cake of enamel-bright yellow and white layers — and usually have a name: Bearcat, Capt. A.O. Holmes, Mitzi Lou.

The stationary appearance of a barge is deceptive, and can be deadly. The downstream-bound especially throws up only the tiniest ripple of foam at the leading edge of its straight, boxy bow. Nor does the tug itself churn up much wake, and the whole contraption is so massive it appears to be standing still.

But moving it is, inexorably. As long as we give it wide berth, it is merely one more interesting sight along the way, and, surprisingly, leaves only the slightest turbulence in the water behind it.

Whoever said “Never look back,” however, was not piloting a small boat on a large river.

The barge that got my attention came up behind us while I was at the helm. Despite reminding each other regularly to check for overtaking traffic, we missed that one altogether. Never saw him until I happened to glance out the window on our port side where he was drawing silently abreast of us.

There was plenty of distance between us; he'd have radioed or sounded his horn if he'd thought I was too close to his path. Still, he set my heart to pounding, and not with his good looks. I could so easily have drifted into his path.

There is absolutely nothing these behemoths can do to avoid a straying pleasure boat. He was making about twice our 4.5 knots, riding high and empty on the river. My heart continued racing until he pushed gradually ahead of us, around the next bend, and out of sight.

Didn't help at all to have Dave retell a story from one of his boating magazines, about a couple whose sailboat slipped its anchorage one night and drifted into the path of a barge on the Intracoastal Waterway in Florida. The barge master never saw the sailor, never even knew his monster craft had crushed the boat and its sleeping occupants.

Small boats cause us the most grief on the river. Forgive me, fishermen, for that which I do not understand, but I'd have to list bass tournaments right up there with bullfights and bungee-jumping among my top Most Mystifying So-Called Sports. What's “sport” about tearing around at 60 miles an hour, roiling the surface of a tranquil lake, throwing fumes and spray into the air, shattering a Sunday morning with a 150-horse two-stroke snarl? I don't get it.

But I guess they don't “get” our pleasure in gliding at walking speed, quiet enough to hear bird song and a mallard's wing cutting the clear air.

Annoying as they are, when they're up on a plane the hot dogs in glitter-boats don't rock us the way the cabin cruisers do. A few know their wake is traumatic and slow down appropriately, but more proceed with disregard — or malice — toward smaller craft.

Whichever of us is at the helm takes counter-action by turning straight across the wake; the other steadies dish rack and oil lamp, blocking the laptop with a hip.

Seems like the Alice will never come to rest again, but she does, and we resume course, dreading the glint of sunlight off the next approaching cruiser.

Weekends are the worst. Like most people on a retiree's calendar, we try to schedule our adventures for mid-week and stay holed up on the weekend, whether sightseeing, camping, or exploring rivers in our little trawler.

These days, however, school groups keep worthwhile destinations jammed during the week. Kids are noisy, pushing and squealing, far more intent on swiping each others' snacks than in viewing the rare side-necked turtle in the aquarium display.

But although we wonder how much they really get out of such outings, their energy and insouciance are infectious. We'd rather see a stampede of school-kids coming toward us than a bus disgorging a senior citizens' group in front of a restaurant.

Bless their hearts: no longer hung up on what other people will think, their behavior and dress are sometimes appalling. In garish nylon and coiffed for the day, the women smoke and talk louder than they do at home. Their menfolk, distracted by their own earnest conversations or maybe trying to tune out the women, mill right along with them. Heaven help the outsider who tries to cut through the blockade they throw across a sidewalk.

Sometimes the traveler's best option is just how to stay out of the way.

Tugs and barges, fishermen and power boats, students or senior citizens on a frolic — sometimes it's wise to steer a course at the edge of the channel and let the crowd hurry by.

And never look back.

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