Raindrops fall discontentedly from a leaden, late Fall sky, staining the pavement a darker shade of urban bland. Traffic sounds are muted. The willow trees at the edge of the Public Garden’s pond drip water into the dirt below, while somewhere down Beacon Street the two-tone banshee wail of a city ambulance echoes through the man-made canyons before it fades away into the wet, cold air...

Mist rises from the surface of the river, visible in the diffused shafts of sunlight that filter through the trees. The current runs smoothly between banks of mangrove and mud, a blanket of river grass hanging suspended in its pull. My plastic sit-atop kayak is unwieldly—and besides, paddling has become unfamiliar to me. It’s been several years since I’ve held a double-bladed paddle—actually come to think of it, any paddle—in my hands. In the stillness of the morning I grip the shaft tightly, square my shoulders, and inelegantly dig in, the bow surging forward against the current with each stroke...

The double-paned window is cold to the touch and the back of my hand leaves behind a smudge of condensation when I pull it away from the glass. I watch the moisture fade, evaporating into the relatively warmer air of my hotel room, as finally, I begin to feel the stress of the last few hours of flying lift from my shoulders. I spin the padded office chair I’m sitting in around to face the room, and then stand up and roll my shoulders several times. The spot that has been bothering me behind my right shoulder blade pops, the noise jarringly loud in the empty space, and I grunt with satisfaction...