It was only 11 o'clock and the crack of the days first Kuurs can echoed across the river. We had paddled nearly 20 miles since we launched back at the Transient Canoe Dock. We weren't nearly half way. The dew that fell that night had been resurrected and hung in the morning like laundry along the branches of the trees on the banks. Such fog they say, lures men from their wives and fish from their schools. We paddled, and around each river bend we witnessed the sun burning through the body of the fog and at our own skin. Our shirts had to come off, our sunglasses had to be put on, our first joint had to be lit.
There's something about submerged river stones with long moss growing on them that resemble the tops of balding men's heads, their long hair flowing in the current of the river. There's something about the way water swirls around the edges of your paddle after a J-stroke. There's something spiritual about the canoe parting the water. Overall something at the bottom of the throat arrives when you are out of your element, out of your routine, knowing that everyone else is still at work, under buzzing florescent lights, and you are loafing, enjoying "new perspectives".