In the middle of a crossing between islands, we stopped paddling. Water dripped from our paddles. From the distance came the constant muffled rush of waves breaking on granite shores. A bell buoy gonged in rhythm with the swell.
I'd met Brighid in Webb Cove, and we mutually asked "where to?" The water looked amazingly calm, and the air temperature was rising into the high thirties. We decided to head to an island neither of us had been to. Awhile later we stood on Shabby Island, a small treeless mound about a mile from its nearest neighbor islands.
Arriving near high tide, we pulled our boats up onto the ledge and found the perfect rocks to sit on and eat our lunch. We'd each packed enough for two, so we ate well.
We headed over toward the Lazygut Islands, but this is where the calm caught up with us. The bell buoy gonged, the water lapped. The sky and water were almost the same color. We drifted, savoring the dreaminess of it.
Eventually we started paddling again, not wanting to leave such a moment behind, but knowing we'd be getting back after dark. Still, we couldn't resist going around each of the Lazyguts in a large-scale island slalom. The light began draining toward the western horizon, and we followed it, pointing back to Stonington.