Why do I torture myself? Every time the alarm shatters my dreams and drags me into the cold, I promise myself that this time will be the last. Yes, this morning will definitely be the last.

My car knows the way to the water’s edge. All I have to do is rub the sleep away and conjure a world where late afternoons are yawn-free and where Friday nights with good friends endure beyond half past dinner.

My tyres crunch the gravel of the car park. In the murky pre-dawn, my friends are phantoms, busying themselves with ghostly preparations.
The river whispers in the darkness, exhaling a vaporous breath that, like my own, burns white against the cold.

On land, our ride is a cantankerous old girl. We balance her upside down above our heads and coax her to the river’s edge with promises of silent running. She resists momentarily, catching fingers and bruising shoulders until we roll her awkwardly into the liquid crystal. She glares at us initially, but her mood improves as we fix her wings and ready her seats. She accepts us begrudgingly and we push off in a flurry of whirling eddies.

We run with the current at first, easing our oars into the deep grey with a gurgle and whoosh. The old girl has been transformed. She is now a sleek racer, a thoroughbred.

Now we turn her into the flow and she responds with alacrity to our call for more power. Hearts pound and muscles strain as we urge her on. If we try hard enough, we may be able to defeat the current. As a timid sun reveals the edge of strawberry clouds and we celebrate the intimate communion between water and sky, we may even be able to stop time itself.

I’ll be back tomorrow.