There's just no other way to say it, staking out Walter Cronkite is one of my favorite past-times. I simply can't get enough of it. It brings out the very beast in me.
It all started a couple days ago when my finely honed espionage network informed me Uncle Walt was on island. Hot Dog, thought I, my own finely honed instincts warming, as I got down on all fours and sniffed the salt air. No that's not right. Actually, I was somewhat more sophisticated, not that it makes the slightest bit of difference now.
Armed with my brand new digital camera, (I've become cyber), I set out with the trail still warm, only to discover through my trusty network that Uncle Walt had gone to the BVI, but, Eureka!, he would be back in two days. This would give me plenty of time to lie in wait, sharpening my instincts, hormones, whatever.
And then I discovered — oh, be still my heart – that he wasn't alone. He was with Andy Rooney; The Andy Rooney. How lucky can one hapless reporter get? I mean, Good Grief, probably two of the most recorded voices of the 20th century almost in my palm. I was imagining it already – here we are Sunday night watching Andy on "60 Minutes," when he pauses, interrupts himself really, to remember his meeting with me that fateful afternoon on a Frenchtown dock . . . .
Well, the great day finally dawned, and I craftily slunk up B-dock toward his boat, cleverly concealing my camera in my mouth. The boat, Wyntje, looked exactly the same as when I had accosted him last year, (and even got an autograph), except that it wasn't Uncle Walt in the cockpit, and it certainly wasn't Andy. A nice enough looking young man looked up as I dislodged the camera and asked where Mr. Cronkite might be. "Oh," he said, "they left yesterday." Clunk. Thud.
I fought valiantly to conceal my distress, and inquired if they might return (sometime in my lifetime). "Maybe next month, but not Mr. Rooney."
You've got to admit it's a fine picture of Uncle Walt's chair in the cockpit. Empty.
