It is late October. At five-thirty in the morning it is still very dark and night-like. But I am making my way down a narrow wooded sanctuary path at the Lloyd Centerand headed for a dock and waiting whaleboat along the 
Slocum's River.
My head lamp guides my way and helps me dodge some of the protruding roots, stumps and rocks that work to hold the earth and me back in whatever way possible. In the midst of this gentle and pristine quietness it is apparent too, that I am not alone. Ahead, left and right,, forest creatures scurry under brush, and something with wings flaps upward into higher branches as I make my way. It becomes obvious that the "clink" of stones underfoot and the bailing buckets I am carrying are making too much noise, so I slow my pace and choose my footsteps, trying to be a less intrusive visitor.
The trail winds left and right, then over a rise into a tiny clearing that in predawn darkness requires choices of which way to go next. I've learned to just keep bearing right which dips down alongside a gloriously aromatic saltmash, where woodland yields to marsh grass, tidal pools and open water. This ancient intersection, especially at this hour of day, dissolves any sense of urgency I might have and stops me silent. Here, in this reverent moment hints of dawn and red begin to lighten the eastern sky. The far-off squawk of gulls and the stirring and clacking of nearby waterfowl in inlet pockets makes me appreciate that many besides myself are poised to rise into a brand new day.Slowly, if not somewhat reluctantly, I walk onward as the path opens to the river, wooden dock and waiting row boat.
I came early allowing time to bail out water from the latest rainstorm before my teammates arrive to row. To my surprise and delight, really, the boat was dry...no need to bail. A "bailing fairy" had obviously arrived unannounced the day before and gave the water back to water where it belongs. (When I do bail, I rather enjoy the simple, repetitive task of scooping and dumping, scooping and dumping overboard, until the twenty- eight foot craft is dry from bow to stern.)
With a newfound gift of time on my hands this morning, I zipped up my windbreaker and nestled into the stern platform to keep warm and quiet until my rowing partners arrive. Westerly winds blew gently past distant fields, across the bay and through my senses. Water slapped out notes in time along the hull. The bowline, creaking against its cleat, swayed slowly back and forth, treating me to a symphony of sight and sound and gentle wonder. Upon my arrival, high thin clouds obscured the heavens. But now, sitting motionless and looking upward, the veil had suddenly vanished, revealing a masterpiece of brilliant stars on a jet-black canvas. I kept looking and looking and sure enough, came one and then a second shooting star, a crowning moment to my splendid temporary retreat.
Soon, I hear a distant voice, and see lights glittering dimly along the path as the sounds grow closer. I hold my place and silence as long as possible. A cormorant, who had been diving and dining nearby, decides its time to fly off. A march of footsteps arrives upon the dock and it is time to rise up and go rowing. 
© Text and images by Kevin Lee, all rights reserved.
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