A nine-ribbed Morning Glory leapt over us yesterday, and we were were waxing utopian to think that we could ride another this morning. Dew-slicked wings and water-heavy canopy covers made us hopeful. We climbed into our gliders with damp hands. In a momentary span of motorless quiet, I heard a rooster crow. On the horizon, a faint outline of a thick cloud, but too far out to sea to surf. Instead, we traced the Albert River back to Burketown before the sun sent the fog away.