Biting the Tide

Anchors up meant no more lounging on the thwarts. I marched straight down to the center rowing bench, planted my boots firm against the ribbed floor timbers, and locked both thick fists around the heavy wooden oar shaft. Leaned forward, squared my jaw, and dipped the weathered blade straight into the choppy green channel water. With a booming shout from my ribs, I threw my entire back into the pull. The oak rowlock screeched, water churned white behind the blade, and the skiff surged true through the harbor chop. Nothing drifts when my muscle commands the oars.