There is something freeing about slipping a small boat into the still, dark water that could be almost glass it’s so smooth. Especially after the sun has set and the stars are peeking out at you. It’s more freeing than slipping through the water with the sun shinning.
The only thing that brings me to pause is that it can be harder to navigate in the dim light, but a bit of caution and it trust in your memory will keep you right. The slow, silent movements of a paddle seem to whisper to the ghosts of time spent here before. And I feel at home, at peace in this slightly different place. And yet as different as it is, I find I fit nicely into these moments.
I don’t do this often. Time seems to run short now that I’m older. And when Beloved is here, he doesn’t like to throw caution into the wind, afraid it will drift away like wisps of smoke. So we settle for slipping in either early in the morning or just a bit before the sun is starting to make its trip downwards. To him it’s still magical, to move across the water so still, as if we are one with everything else found here on the water.
Beloved also doesn’t like to travel in the rain, not on the water. The boat is meant to keep us dry. Rain is wet. To him it feels wrong to be wet while trying to find a dry form of transportation. Me, I don’t mind watching the rain drops dance across the water, changing it from polished glass to an energetic dance floor. Truthfully I have never stopped marveling at the way the water rain ends up melting in to the larger pool of water and becoming a still, reflecting mirror again.
Sometimes when the water is barely moving, the light is low, I will dream of slipping the boat back into the water and heading off to the memories from before.