I see the man dig her oar into the rippling water with such grace that it takes my breathe away. Any assortment of goods, typically packed into a backpack, lay in colourful array in front of her. Is she headed away for a weekend? Does she transport these beautiful items to market? Is she bringing gifts to a neighbour? Life lived on and by the water, a holy place of sorts. Is not water the space in which we are most continually asked to trust? As we traverse and consume and dwell by this substance through which all life is sustained? This matter through which we are anointed?