“I’ll make these paddles with a squared-off bottom edge,” he said. “Those seem to hold up better than the Maine guide or the beavertail, which are rounded and tend to smash up on a rocky bottom.”

“That’s nice, Father,” I replied, not knowing if I were agreeing to fish or fowl. But now in the creek, I could watch as the long paddles dipped into the brown water and see what my father had described. The maple wood was naturally springy. It let the paddlers get a good bite in the water without digging in as if they were trying to dig a ditch. We carried a spare paddle lashed to the side of the canoe, but it was one of the heavy clumsy ones Pete had given us when he brought my father the canoe. Nor were my father’s paddles painted. “Paint only covers up a flaw someone’s trying to hide,” he told me as he protected the maple with several thin coats of varnish. He pointed out that he was not varnishing the handle, where it would be gripped by the hand. “Blisters come soon enough on a long day,” he said. “No point in adding varnish to help them along. Skin oil worked into the wood will protect it well enough.”

I watched them at their rowing. My father sat loosely, rolling with the motion of the canoe. His right hand was clasped over the grip while the other held the shaft loosely, with his arm out straight. He matched movements with Tim’s. Although each time Tim’s paddle bit into the water, I felt the canoe try to surge to that side, and my father twisted his paddle, which put us back on the straight and narrow.

The water was deep, and we did not have to jig sideways to avoid rocks or sunken trees. The hours floated by. There was a light breeze, so the bugs didn’t pester us. All we needed was a freezer can of ice cream and a brass band and it would have been like the Fourth of July downtown. I even dozed awhile.

“Look.”

I tilted my head up and caught sight of a flock of ducks going over. They seemed close.

“We’ll have rain soon,” said my father.

“How do you know?” I asked.

“Those ducks were too low for the middle of the day. They’re looking for shelter. We’d better do the same or we’ll soon be wet.”

The breeze seemed fresher. There was that musty, cold smell in the air that often precedes a rainstorm. I concluded that he was right and began to look around for a convenient landing spot.