The best hours of Walter Cronkite's life were not spent in a newsroom， or in pursuit of a story. They came after vigorous days of sailing his yawl Wyntje off the coast of Georgia or Maine. There was nothing more satisfying then， he wrote， than dropping anchor in an otherwise deserted cove just before sunset， of pouring that evening libation and， with a freshly roasted bowl of popcorn， lying back as the geese and ducks and loons make your acquaintance and the darkness slowly descends to complement the silence.