History of Wolves: A Novel by Emily Fridlund:
The minute the canoe touched water, it moved on its own. Every stroke with the paddle was almost excessive. There wasn’t a ripple on the lake, not a wave. You could see clear to the bottom. You could see bluegill rising, lily pads sinking under the prow. You could see air bubbles winding away in a trail behind the boat. At the far end of the lake, I pulled the canoe ashore, bent down, and rolled it up to my shoulders, my head inside the hull. It took me a second to get the balance right before I set off on the rocky portage.