How quickly the day warmed up to possibilities and became a true story.
We paddled around in it, calmly.
People waved from the restaurants; they too were eating the sun, but indoors where things are safer and light is made of matchsticks struck one by one. We waved back from the open water and kept going, each in our own magical flotilla.
How innocently the shore receded, dissolving cove by cove, letting go of us as if we were children ready to leave home.
Little did we know the tides were inching up, as responsible as dawn to certain inexorable tasks, creating an impossible current, a vortex, a situation from which there might be no return.
For the sea had drawn a line in the sand and we had crossed it.
The kayaks stalled, one by one, in the open sea.
And for much longer than I could remember, it was as if the ocean was in possession of the oars and kayak, and that I had nothing but the small alert energy of my hopelessness to get me to shore.
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