The fumes
from the fuel invade my nostrils as we push off, pressing through the sand bars
and reeds, water splashing up around the stern, a gushing V that catches the
glint of sunlight.
I’m
nervous, senses growing confused with the motion, my queasy stomach like a
fragile egg ready to crack.
Egrets
stand like white sentinels among the tan islands among the stiff spouts of
fresh spartina.
The boat
bucks at each turn, the swish of water sounding against its side, a small white
fiber glass steed bouncing against the rising tide.
The wind
whips at us from our motion, filled with the scent of sea salt, motor oil and
brine.
We pass
under low bridges, arches whose legs take on the greenish tint of algae near
the water, and pock-marked with the array of barnacles and rust, competing with
the blue paint.
The depth
meter informs us the hull skates over two feet of water, though we squint not
at the meter, but at the egg cup ahead of us, where man stirs up an atomic
broth, a gruesome concrete beast leaning over the water and outlined by the
milk-blue sky. Not until the meter beeps telling us we race at inches instead
of feet do we turn our attention there, the more realistic danger of becoming a
victim common ground rather than atoms.
We slow,
with the vague hope slower will keep us from sinking into the mud, inching our
way ahead until the meter’s numbers increase: one foot, two feet, and then more
than we need to drown, the mysterious invisible channels yawning beneath us,
allowing us to pick up speed. Higher bridges stretching their broad arms over
our heads, until the sea beyond greets us and more powerful waves beat at us,
sending their terrible spray over the windshield and our heads as we steer out
away from land and towards the empty horizon,.
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