It's predawn at West Point. The usual controlled chaos is underway. Pros and marshals finding each other, launching boats under a makeshift light powered by a generator, rock and country music with a driving beat blaring from speakers under a pavilion overlooking the ramp.
That' where I am, under the pavilion sitting on a picnic table thumb typing on a phone that's smarter than I am.
For the pros, the first morning is the most intense. They're as amped aspurebreds locked in the starting gate at the Kentucky Derby. We'll find out today who the front runners are in this bass marathon.