Three miles west of Ghost River, Lake Superior – August 31, 2013
I wake pressed between two sheets of grey. The thick, low clouds reflect against the still water and make the air feel heavy and tight. I float off the coast, relishing the calmness and looking at the cell towers rising above Wawa at the back of a bay.
I think of stopping, of fresh food, of the name of a friend’s friend scribbled on a card and the chance at a roof to sleep under. I’ve been out a week since Sault Ste. Marie. I could use the short day. The clouds look ready to burst.
The next town is 130 miles away, five days in perfect weather, ten or more in bad. I add up the food still stashed in my hull.
“Barely enough,” I think.
I want to turn. I can almost taste the hamburger, the basket of fries, the scoops of ice cream over slices of blueberry pie. I feel the comfort of a roof, the chance to shower, the warmth of four solid walls. Everything weighs in favor of stoping except the smooth, silver water stretched out to the horizon.
It is enough.
I take one last look toward civilization and press on.