The flat surface of the water extends like an infinite sheet of glass below me. The sky stretches above, soft oranges and pinks defining the edges of the sun ahead. Drops of light dance on the edges of falling wakes, sinking back below the surface in an instant. Noiseless, the shore watches over its domain, the silence only broken by the slow rolling of my seat and the quiet movement of my oar in and out of the water, slow, calm, forward and back.
A cool breeze runs down my arm, drying the sweat on the back of my neck. My hands rub gently against the green handle, pale from sun and use; I can feel my palms starting to tear under the friction of every stroke. Every muscle tensing and releasing in powerful strokes, releasing energy into the water around me. Calm and controlled, a continuous motion. Waves extend behind me; it's as if a giant had waved a dripping hand above his flooding sink, letting the drops fall one after another in a winding trail, disappearing as fast as it had emerged.