LATER THAT DAY, after dozens more fruitless attempts (including several failed introductions by an old-country version of Paulie Walnuts from The Sopranos), we collapsed on a bench, and the grumps and disillusionment set in.

Even if we'd had a boat, the place would have sucked. Jock's description of the land of milk and biscotti couldn't have been further off. There were no fishermen relaxing on the docks, no locals ready to invite us up to their villas for a bel riposo. Cinque Terre was a Knott's Berry Farm of quaintness. Every hour or so, a ferry would arrive at the towns and vomit throngs of bliss-blind honeymooners, drunk study-abroad students, and bumbling tour-ons. It may have been more tranquil when you guys sang its praises years ago, but now the place is a goddamn pileup.

But what were my options? Either loiter with the refrigerator-magnet shoppers or hang out with J.D.

I chose the magnet shoppers.

While J.D. returned to La Spezia to mime the mildly dirty act of blowing up a rubber raft to sporting-goods clerks—or so he claimed, at least—I decided I needed to see my Juliet.

Go ahead, say it: "What the hell?!" [Editors' note: What the hell?!] Truth is, I can't explain why. Trusting your gut is just something I've learned to do in the field.

I quickly found a bartender in Monterosso who knew Juliet's real name— Maies—but, dammit, the bartender also knew she had the next few days off. I wouldn't be able to see her.

Trip: over. Life force: drained.

Juliet was gone. J.D. was away. A boat was nowhere to be found. La dolce vita wasn't so much as a gelato flavor. I wandered down to the beach to be more alone.

On the way, I passed a middle-aged coiffure walking up the cement stairs to her beachside apartment and, impelled by nothing more than habit, threw out "Mi scusi! My buddy and I are here from Colorado and Wisconsin and we were hoping to row down the coast. You don't have a rowboat we could rent, do you?"

"Sure," she said in perfect English. "My husband Angelo's." His family, the Benvenutos, had been fishermen in Cinque Terre for more than a thousand years. He happened to be one of the last commercial anchovy fishermen remaining in Monterosso, and she could surely offer us their extra dinghy, Strefugio (roughly, "something you know you should get rid of but don't want to"). We agreed on a fee of 40 euros per day.

Five minutes later, I was staring at the elegant lines of a periwinkle-blue beauty.