Past Grindstone Point, Bushy Bay, Lake Superior – August 29, 2013
I slide past islands that rise like wedges from the sea, their faces battered down by waves, their backs left steep and defiant with tufts of green trees clinging to the heights. I pass rocky points that jut out like proud chins and refuse to bend as softer rock gives way and crumbles into the sea. I search for pretty pebbles on crescent beaches hidden between fingers of stone. I follow eagles soaring over cliffs a hundred feet high and stare up at the sheer face of rock until I’m dizzy.
Ugly pieces of coast don’t exist here. There’s no room for fillers. Even the dullest rock faces look majestic taken alone. I want to stop time on this perfect day, to pause the world, to paddle forever with the sun glowing over this still sheet of blue water.
But time refuses my invitation. The sun marches across the sky and drops away. Clouds appear late on the horizon. I land on a rocky beach between two cliffs and watch the rock glow in the sun’s last rays.
“One perfect day,” I think.
Darkness chases away the long-set sun. I hear thunder echo out of the distance and the first rush of wind brushes against my cheek.