By 7:29pm, as I lifted my board from the silky black water, the newly-risen moon shone hazy against the dark eastern sky, low enough to the horizon that one could imagine drops of water still falling earthward after its emergence from the ocean. 

The sun had set nearly a half hour before, but as I turned my gaze from the water, I saw that the western horizon still retained more than a hint of the brilliant streaks of orange and red the sun had splashed across the sky as it settled below the Danvers River for the night.  

Finding myself upside down in the kayak with my head pointing toward the muddy river bottom was shocking enough. The cold ocean water pouring into my ruptured neck gasket and flooding my (still) too thin wetsuit added a surprising new twist on suffering.

Islands are more often than not the destination for my paddling, when there is a destination. The larger islands are exciting in their own right, but as they gain in size, they diminish in their islandness, and so it is the small ones that I prefer:

Islands of floating sea ice, far too small to call icebergs, and large enough only to hold myself, one hand steady on the bow, as they float down river and out to open water, where they'll eventually melt back into the sea. These ephemeral islands, on whose fleeting structure I am the only person that has ever and will ever set foot, are my favorite.