THE NEXT DAY, soliciting a few other woulda-been fishermen, we learned that, besides the general impossibility of things, Levanto, Monterosso, and Riomaggiore were the only towns in the area with a reputation for boats. Just four days in and we were already two-thirds of the way toward failure. I was beginning to picture our glorious row, and my professional reputation, drifting off toward Tunisia.

We desperately needed to change tactics, and I resolved that we would simply buy and captain a rubber raft, inflatable lounge chairs, a Spider-Man float tube, or any other oceangoing pool toy, mistrals be damned.

We hopped a train for the nearest big city, La Spezia, an oversunned, heavily militarized coastal city of 90,000. But the sporting-goods stores had closed for a local holiday.

"The Feast of the Immaculately Work-Averse Italians," J.D. joked.

Unamused, I suggested J.D. use his wit to find us a bus back to the train station.

We rode the train in silence to Riomaggiore, our last hope. It, of course, was also shut. We called it a day.

At 9:15 the next morning, a neighbor began refurbishing a stack of wooden shutters with a vibrating sander right outside our window. J.D. didn't so much as scratch himself.

"I can't do this alone!" I wanted to yell but of course didn't, because obstinacy and the belief you can do pretty much everything without assistance are the cornerstones of manliness. Enraged, I left J.D. to suffer another scolding for late checkout. It was bad, guys. B-A-D. The more manic I grew, the more he slept, so the more manic I grew. We had transformed from good friends to a silently feuding couple.