Oldsquaw talks across the water: all all UP! at wing-blade paddle’s catch and glide. We skim like scoters rising, falling seaskycradle to the race, the piling wavelets salt-spray surge across scant freeboard, free of cove’s close clasp, each set of waves white-edged and sweeping seaward. Sway, we sway the rising falling swell to heaven, spear like heron, rock-a-bye the dun-sand border, running sea the way out, way in.