The kayak is far heavier than I had imagined. On water of course it glides, as weightless as the earth in space. It takes the two of us to haul it down to the water's edge and let the carrot coloured boat bob at the shore - the front end planted on the shingle and the rudder end joyously afloat. Then we head back to the shack to pick up the second. A double would be less work right now, just one to carry, but the fun of paddling solo is worth the effort. One kayak each means hours of fun, both of us in one boat means hours of frustration. The rubber skirts look ridiculous until we sit, and then they are just the bomb, stretching around the rim to keep us dryer as we paddle out. I get the carrot, Ben gets a blue brighter than the sky and now the only task is to paddle to the bay, lunch safely stowed in the cubby holes.
The lake lay silver in the bright light of the noon sun, not a perfect ovoid like a looking glass of old, but irregular like an ink-splat of age old concrete. The rippled water ran right into the crevices, washing the soil from the rocks. Around the edges were pines, chaotic in their spacing but never more than a few feet without a tree. The only sound was the soft whispering of the trees and Ryan's legs splashing as he pulled the kayak into the cool water at the northern bank. To the southern side it looked an easy journey in a couple of hours, but he knew better than most that the headwind would add on at least another hour and tire him more than paddling double the distance on a still day.
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