I returned to the water like a boxer leaving his corner after a bad round. Sluggish. Weary. Not wanting to do it again.
The wind hadn’t stopped blowing. It just rolled over me all night, loud and angry, shouting taunts.
The water felt like wet concrete. The bow lumbered through the sludge on heavy strokes. The world slipped backwards on the gusts. I moved in inches, pressed into the grass at high tide, scrapped the mud bottom at low, trying to find a crack in the wall of rushing air.
Another seven hours, another ten miles, and the bell rings.