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The sky showed no hint of morning
as his double-bladed oar grabbed the water and pushed the kayak east
toward the bright city lights. From the reflection of those lights,
he saw the swelling, falling, living surface of the sea. Beneath him
the water was black and impenetrable. Only twice had he
overturned with the kayak and felt the blinding,
cold water envelop him. He had fought frantically the first time to right
himself; he had laughed underwater the second.
As he crossed the bay, he carried a battery-powered
lantern stowed between his legs to announce his presence to large ships, but
he seldom used it. It would do little good anyway. While the kayak could turn
quickly and easily, large ships took miles to change course. If the pilots
could see him, and they likely could not, they would think he was out of bounds
to take so small a craft into their territory. He didn't care. Here on the water he
strayed out of bounds.
Reprinted with permission
from First Avenue
Copyright © 2003
by Lowen Clausen
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