On we go. They are his words not mine. My words are more doom. He used the right words though, just like he made the right call. Sunday. 10. It occurred to me to do it but I didn’t want to ask. Refusals often offend. There’s too much offence at times. Not with us. With them. The first few strokes were head on top. Just like polo players, but we are not polo players. We are not moon men either. But this is where the moon men go. We both have an urge. The urge wasn’t planned but the water would fix that. The weather wasn’t planned but the sea would fix that. Glass. Smooth. Cloudy. Quiet. He had to be back and I had to be back somewhere else. It was planned. A few small schooners were floating about. The big one had gone in. He wouldn’t be back for a while. He’d crush you. And he wouldn’t see you. We daren’t warn the harbourmaster. He’d kill the dream. The bureaucrat’s whim. No endeavour on his laptop. You couldn’t reason. You’d be holding up a city. The city was holding us up. We’re gliding. A light trek. The perspective is different when you can’t see. The red house is just a bit over here. You expect it to come. There’s no panic. There isn’t even a ripple. The metronome of adventure. You’re wondering what’s around the corner. You don’t see the bend. The red house is still in the same place. A thousand meters. As the cormorant flies. No sun. No gloom. He is still beside me. I am still beside him. We are still alive. We are still on this journey. There is no need to rest. There is no need to race. The season gave me everything I wanted. I couldn’t say I needed it but I think I did. We stop to calculate the men with hooks. Lined along the promenade. Catching nothing. It’s cultural. It’s sea air. Maybe that’s a drug. Don’t tell the special branch. It will give them an excuse to stay away from the backwaters. It’s flowing against us. That’s usually the way. On which day was it that God made it easy? We give the mackerel men a wide berth. They aren’t moon men either. The red house. I don’t want to stare at it. It has memories. We have to watch now. The green pillar is next. After that it’s back. The pillar looks close. It looks safe. Maybe it’s too close and the twenty thousand tonne schooners go on the other side. We have to get beyond the other side before we go back, otherwise it wouldn’t make sense. Did any of this ever make sense? The flow is to the side now. I can’t say it’s darker. It’s ominous. Go there and you will know. Nobody goes there, except on schooners. Maybe a canoe. The harbourmaster would shit himself if he saw you now. It’s lucky the sewage factory is nearby. We are dandering. I could tell trepidation from his talk. My gammy eyes said there was a schooner setting out. The green pillar said touch me then go back. I said to him, touch the pillar and we will head back away from this trepidation. We touched the pillar. Are we now moon men? Or do you need to pay subs? We turn. Steady as she flows. Clearly enough room for the twenty thousand tonnes pointing at us. I could point my eighty five kilograms at it, but that would be a bit bureaucratic and it wouldn’t see the perspective. We are back at the red house quicker than we left. We both have to be back. We taxi to the rocks. The mackerel men start asking, did we see any fish. No answer would have made a difference. We didn’t. We can see the rain. It hadn’t arrived. We walk back. We go on.