Tourist Canoe

Tourist Capoe Andrew Gottlieb Always like this: the thunk of paddle on gunwale. Lifted wood turns pond drip to ripples, and the glide of the curved bow spears the surface in a silent vee your pressed blade makes. This is you alone, your body levering the boat ahead, hull rolling with your tensed weight, your hips pleased with the lean and lull of the shell on clear water, the slow shift of the far-off shore. In the bow, a bag of rock for balance. The surface resists your sink with its flared palm, your float: this delicate measure of spread and pressure. Below your stroke, boulders sit deep in the green murk, glacial remains dragged and dropped with an age that makes you afraid. This is you alone, skimming along the surface again with the flexed effort your body allows, mere feet from the cold underneath the lake freely shows. This is you seeing the dark fish float over the rock you fear, the salmon's black back still for a moment in the cold lake, the slack body, hovering mid-water below your boat before a gill-flare and a rippling fin tip you off to the flicker of a swift single surge. You stare. There's just a rock, and this is you, adrift with your lean and your look, your shadow, the paddle, your stiff imitation. 43 ...