wait...” he breathes.
Shannon and Joe
She arrives at the put-in under the bridge first. It is a calm morning, hot already, and threatening to be the hottest day of the summer. There is no ocean breeze on this lee side of the island, especially at the put-in under the bridge. She applies another layer of sunscreen as she waits.
He arrives five minutes later.
“ Morning,” he says.
“ Morning,” she answers.
He hands her a to-go cup of coffee.
“ Thanks,” she says. She sips, looks over the brim of the to-go cup at him. Her eyes thanking him for his thoughtfulness.
They both drink their coffee, unencumbered by the need for trivial morning conversation.
The kayak delivery service arrives right on time. There is a bright yellow tandem sit-on-top kayak, four paddles, and four life jackets in the bed of the truck.
They pick paddles and life jackets that fit while the deeply tanned man lifts the kayak down out of the truck and puts it at the edge of the water.
“ Have you been paddling before?” he asks.
“ No,” he says.
“ Yes, a few times a year,” she adds.
“ Usually the better paddler sits in the back,” the kayak man says.
She positions herself in the back.
“ You might want to adjust the foot rests before you go,” the kayak man instructs. He shows them how to get them just right, so that their feet are braced and so that they are low to the water with their backs supported, without their knees too high where they would make them unstable.
They pull out from under the bridge, feeling their way.
“ Let’s go up this side for a while, until we have a feel for it,” he suggests.
She agrees, sees that they can go half a mile up on the ocean side of the Intracoastal and stay out of the wind and little waves that they will have to cross to get to the canals on the other side. The canals where she has seen the birds every time over the bridge.
A snowy egret takes wing twenty yards ahead of them. It crosses the Intracoastal in a few dozens of seconds, flying mere feet, maybe inches above the water.
“ I love the birds,” she says.
“ I love shooting birds. Ducks off the water and wild turkeys over in the hills.”
“ You’re a hunter?” she asks. The disdain is obvious in her voice.
“ I’m a southerner, it’s what we do,” he says
“ Are you defined by where you were born? Or are you able to reason for yourself?”
“ I am defined, in part, by where I live, because of the things to which I was exposed and grew to love as a child. I hunt because I like to hunt and because I like the taste of game birds, not because I’m a southerner. But I suppose I grew up learning to hunt and loving to hunt in part because I am a southerner.”
She considers his answer.
“ Well. It’s legal, and you like it, and you’re not asking me to go hunting with you...” she says
“ I’ll only go hunting while you’re in Ohio,” he says.
“ And you don’t have to tell me about it,” she says.
“ Deal.”
After twenty minutes paddling into the little breeze that is fetching up the Intracoastal they are far enough from the bridge that all the car sounds are gone. The only sounds are their dipping paddles and their breathing. She picks an angle for crossing the two or three hundred yards of Intracoastal so that the little wind and little waves will be on their quarter, not completely on their beam.
“ Let’s pull hard to get across quicker,” she says.
“ My heart and lungs and mind are ready and willing, but I don’t know about my arms, back, and shoulders,” he says. “I don’t spend all that much time with a shovel like you do,” he says.
“ I think you shovel it pretty good,” she teases.
They pull harder and are quickly across the deeper water and into the first of the shallow canals. Their kayak is so low to the water that the marsh grass and the sparse five foot pines and spruces tower above them. Though only a half an hour from the put in, and though
Shannon and Joe
She arrives at the put-in under the bridge first. It is a calm morning, hot already, and threatening to be the hottest day of the summer. There is no ocean breeze on this lee side of the island, especially at the put-in under the bridge. She applies another layer of sunscreen as she waits.
He arrives five minutes later.
“ Morning,” he says.
“ Morning,” she answers.
He hands her a to-go cup of coffee.
“ Thanks,” she says. She sips, looks over the brim of the to-go cup at him. Her eyes thanking him for his thoughtfulness.
They both drink their coffee, unencumbered by the need for trivial morning conversation.
The kayak delivery service arrives right on time. There is a bright yellow tandem sit-on-top kayak, four paddles, and four life jackets in the bed of the truck.
They pick paddles and life jackets that fit while the deeply tanned man lifts the kayak down out of the truck and puts it at the edge of the water.
“ Have you been paddling before?” he asks.
“ No,” he says.
“ Yes, a few times a year,” she adds.
“ Usually the better paddler sits in the back,” the kayak man says.
She positions herself in the back.
“ You might want to adjust the foot rests before you go,” the kayak man instructs. He shows them how to get them just right, so that their feet are braced and so that they are low to the water with their backs supported, without their knees too high where they would make them unstable.
They pull out from under the bridge, feeling their way.
“ Let’s go up this side for a while, until we have a feel for it,” he suggests.
She agrees, sees that they can go half a mile up on the ocean side of the Intracoastal and stay out of the wind and little waves that they will have to cross to get to the canals on the other side. The canals where she has seen the birds every time over the bridge.
A snowy egret takes wing twenty yards ahead of them. It crosses the Intracoastal in a few dozens of seconds, flying mere feet, maybe inches above the water.
“ I love the birds,” she says.
“ I love shooting birds. Ducks off the water and wild turkeys over in the hills.”
“ You’re a hunter?” she asks. The disdain is obvious in her voice.
“ I’m a southerner, it’s what we do,” he says
“ Are you defined by where you were born? Or are you able to reason for yourself?”
“ I am defined, in part, by where I live, because of the things to which I was exposed and grew to love as a child. I hunt because I like to hunt and because I like the taste of game birds, not because I’m a southerner. But I suppose I grew up learning to hunt and loving to hunt in part because I am a southerner.”
She considers his answer.
“ Well. It’s legal, and you like it, and you’re not asking me to go hunting with you...” she says
“ I’ll only go hunting while you’re in Ohio,” he says.
“ And you don’t have to tell me about it,” she says.
“ Deal.”
After twenty minutes paddling into the little breeze that is fetching up the Intracoastal they are far enough from the bridge that all the car sounds are gone. The only sounds are their dipping paddles and their breathing. She picks an angle for crossing the two or three hundred yards of Intracoastal so that the little wind and little waves will be on their quarter, not completely on their beam.
“ Let’s pull hard to get across quicker,” she says.
“ My heart and lungs and mind are ready and willing, but I don’t know about my arms, back, and shoulders,” he says. “I don’t spend all that much time with a shovel like you do,” he says.
“ I think you shovel it pretty good,” she teases.
They pull harder and are quickly across the deeper water and into the first of the shallow canals. Their kayak is so low to the water that the marsh grass and the sparse five foot pines and spruces tower above them. Though only a half an hour from the put in, and though
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