Rowing in Lunenburg

Rowing at low tide, the smell of kelp and creosote mixes with the aroma of fir trees. My dinghy, Dog Paddle, sneaks past the rusted steel sides of a docked fishing vessel, Primo. She is motionless, as if she has not left port in years. The red walls of Knickel are reflected in the clear harbor water. Lunenburg is waking up.

Tires line the sides of the pier. Their rubber is worn from the sides of docked ships. Above one cluster of used tires, the new truck tires of a parked vehicle seem to be almost bragging that they are still loved by the Chevy.

Underneath the pier, green sea algae grows. Paddling though a broken piling, Dog Paddle floats into the center of darkness. As the eyes adjust, the view is out to the golf course on the other side of the harbor. This view is framed by criss-crossing piling struts that support the pilings.

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