The next campsite is just seven miles away so we paddle along the shore and take our time. Roger is in his element, poking around photographing birds.
The water is smooth, even flat, and there is little sound. The paddle is silent as it enters the water and the boat glides past, but trickles as the paddle slices back into the air. The boat is silent, with only occasional slapping sounds when a small wavelet breaks against the bow. I can hear my wet hand squeaking as it slips along the wooden paddle loom, and sometimes the wood becomes a sound board and turns the squeak into a song.
A pelican crashes into the water to catch a fish. A magnificent bird for sure, but is hardly graceful and the sound is that of a sack of potatoes falling from the sky. A bubble in my water bottle adds an occasional burp when it races to the other end. Each sound is captivating against a quiet background.
I reflect on the noise we have adapted to. We hear boat motors and airplanes even miles away. In the San Juans we could hear large barges even around the back of a distant island. In towns the sounds of florescent lights, motors, fans, talking, and cars combine into such a din that I do not hear each one.
City noise adds tension and subtracts attentiveness. The silence of wilderness relaxes and heightens alertness.
The wind has come up just a bit, enough to add the sound of tiny waves cascading and the scattering the sand, and rustling in the tree tops. As night falls the wind and the crashing waves drown out all of the subtle sounds. The heightened aural sensitivity slips away.
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