dip a paddle
“Wasn’t yesterday’s paddle glorious?” The red crab’s pinchers, on a mug from a trip to Baltimore’s Inner Harbor, embraced pumpkin flavored coffee with cream, no sugar. Cal took a sip. “We only have a kayak because of the kid.”
“Remember the first time they ventured out all those years ago? Neither had kayaked before, the fifth grader had just been prescribed antibiotics for strep throat, and patience was in short supply that spring afternoon.” Thalia blew at her Let that sh*t go! mug. She liked her coffee tepid.
Urania’s stainless, insulated carafe was almost empty. “They clung to shore and tested their balance. In all of the years since, it’s only Typist who ever rolled into the water… once. Come to think of it — the splash was near where yesterday’s photo was taken — about this same time of year.”
Fall has stripped the trees of leaves
The sky is full of clouds
The smell of coffee wafting
Haiku distractions notwithstanding, your post today reminded me of Heraclitus’ words. “No woman steps in the same river twice, for it is not the same river and she is not the same woman.”
My humble apologies to the memory of Heraclitus for adjusting gender referents.
Deb took a class in kayaking at the Y many years ago (pre-Jack). The first class, and the start of every class after, was how to roll the kayak. The instructor could do a complete 360° roll in one smooth motion; Deb got to where she could do it by herself without having to be rescued. Alas, she never used the class out in the wild (and has no desire to do so at her current or future age).