Rick saw that they were perilously near the creek mouth. He turned to look at the incoming trawlers and saw the nearest one almost abeam of them a quarter mile out. "Watch for that inlet," he whispered. "And let's get into the next seat back. The windshield will interfere if we try to paddle from here." He hadn't rigged the oarlocks, knowing they would be unable to row in the narrow inlet. They would have to use the oars as paddles. They climbed over the seat back and each took an oar, kneeling like canoeists. Rick was on the inland side, and he saw the inlet mouth first. "Here," he whispered, and backed water with his oar. The bow of the boat swung around. Rushes and marsh grass scraped past them. The lights of Creek House were still invisible. Rick strained his eyes to see; it was almost inky black in the tall rushes. Then Scotty reached out and felt with his oar. "Left turn," he whispered. He had found the inlet branch that led toward the hotel. Now he backed water, trying not to splash, while Rick poled ahead. The boat swung into the narrow channel, reeds touching it on both sides and making a hissing noise as they progressed. "Only a few feet of water," Rick said softly. "And mud at the bottom." Each time he lifted his oar he felt the weight of a ball of muck on the end. The boat slid gently to a stop. Both boys put their weight on the oars, but it moved only two feet ahead then stopped once more. They put their heads together and discussed it in a low whisper because they were near the creek. "We're aground," Scotty said. "Guess we get out and walk," Rick returned. "Better take our shoes and socks off. It will be muddy." "We'll be lucky if we don't sink in up to our necks." Scotty took his arm suddenly. Rick started to ask what was the matter, then he heard it, too. The cough of a Diesel engine exhaust and the clanking of gear told him that a ship was nearing. A shiver ran through him. Brad Marbek, coming in to load! "Let's step on it, he whispered. He sat down and removed his shoes and socks, then climbed up on the gunwale and walked forward, brushing against the rushes but trying not to make too much noise. He took his oar and shoved straight down from the bow. There was about a foot of water, then another eighteen inches of mud before the bottom firmed. It would be hard going. He started back, but Scotty came to meet him, carrying the camera and power pack. "The tripod," Rick requested in a low whisper. "If the ground is so soft I can't get a firm stance, I'll need it." Scotty handed him the equipment, then went back and got the tripod. Rick screwed the camera into place with a few turns of the tripod nut. Scotty disconnected the power cord that led from the power pack to the camera and coiled it up. They could reconnect it when they needed it. Meanwhile, it would interfere with their progress. He slung the power pack over his shoulder.