A Summer's Oar, A Year's Reckoning

"Samuel, I implore you, cease this infernal fidgeting!" I hissed, my voice barely a whisper above the gentle lapping of the lake against our cedar-strip canoe, The Wanderer. My partner, Samuel, a boy whose dramatic flair was often only outmatched by his profound inability to sit still, nearly tipped us with a sudden, exaggerated sigh.

"But Lenny, the very air hums with anticipation! My core muscles, they quiver! A premonition of triumph, or perhaps a premonition of utter, humiliating defeat, courses through my very being! How can one remain a statue amidst such an imminent tempest of physical exertion?" Samuel’s pronouncements often required me to translate, even for myself. He meant he was nervous.

"Your 'quivering core muscles' will soon be quite literally quivering from sustained effort, I assure you," I retorted, adjusting my grip on the paddle. The wooden shaft felt smooth, worn in places from years of other sweaty hands. I traced a small knot in the grain with my thumb. This was the third year Samuel and I were paired for the Lake Wabanaki Summer Regatta, and each year, his pre-race theatrics grew more elaborate. Last year, he’d claimed his spirit animal, a particularly aggressive goose, was 'urging him onward'. This year, it was 'core muscle premonitions'. The adults, of course, found it charming. I found it exhausting.

Across the water, the other canoes, a colourful assortment of fibreglass and aluminum, jostled for position. Our rivals, Liam and Chloe, in their sleek, fast 'Dragonfly', looked annoyingly composed. Liam even gave a polite, almost pitying nod. I hated polite pity. It made my stomach tighten. Why did everyone have to be so... digitally perfect now, even when competing in something as ancient as a canoe race? I looked around. Half the kids waiting for the starter pistol were subtly, or not so subtly, glancing at their wrist-mounted dataviewers, checking message feeds or micro-streaming their 'pre-race vibes'. Even here, in the supposed wilderness. It was 2025, after all. The algorithms had long since found their way to the deepest lakes.

"Attention, competitors! Five minutes to start!" boomed Old Man Hemlock, his voice amplified by a crackling bullhorn. He stood on the dock, a formidable figure in a wide-brimmed hat, his face tanned like old leather. He probably remembered a time when 'streaming' meant a little creek, not a constant deluge of digital noise. I often wondered if he missed it. I sometimes did. A life where the only immediate feedback was the splash of your paddle and the burn in your arms.

Samuel, meanwhile, had begun a series of elaborate stretches, winding his torso with the gravity of a seasoned athlete preparing for the Olympics, rather than a ten-year-old about to paddle a canoe for three kilometres. "My kinetic chain yearns for activation, Lenny! The very fibres of my being crave release!"

"Just try not to hit me with your elbow when we start paddling, Samuel," I grumbled, pushing off the dock with a grunt. The canoe swayed, water slopping gently over the bow. The lake, which had seemed so calm, now felt vast and intimidating. The current, barely perceptible from the shore, tugged at our small craft.

The Hum and the Burn

"On your marks... Get set... GO!"

The roar from the shore was instantaneous, a wave of sound that seemed to push us forward. Paddles dipped, churned, and sliced, sending sprays of water arcing into the bright morning sun. The Wanderer shot forward, a jolt of energy rattling through my arms. Samuel, to his credit, was paddling with an unexpected ferocity, his theatrical energy channelled into pure, unadulterated propulsion.

"Stroke! Stroke! Maintain your rhythm, Lenny! We must establish dominance early!" he barked, his voice hoarse already. His face was a mask of effort, grimacing as he pulled hard. He was a force of nature when he decided to be. A rather dramatic, loud force of nature.

My own thoughts, usually a cacophony of observations about the latest 'bio-integrated' sneakers or the absurdity of 'wellness influencers' who somehow made money telling people to drink water, were momentarily silenced by the sheer, unyielding effort. Paddle, pull, breathe. Paddle, pull, breathe. The canoe cut through the water, a thin line of foam trailing behind us. My shoulders started to burn, a deep, satisfying ache.

But then, inevitably, my brain started to wander, even amidst the physical demand. I noticed Liam and Chloe pulling ahead, their strokes perfectly synchronized, barely a splash wasted. It was like watching a perfectly executed simulation. Everything these days felt simulated, didn't it? From the 'augmented reality' games my younger cousin played, where virtual dragons soared over our actual backyard, to the news reports of 'algorithm-driven economies' that adults debated endlessly. Was the canoe race just another algorithm waiting to be solved, or was there still some raw, unquantifiable human element to it?

"We must not falter! Their lead is but a temporary illusion!" Samuel exclaimed, his breath coming in ragged gasps. He sounded less like a valiant warrior and more like a deflating balloon. I nearly chuckled, but every ounce of energy was focused on keeping our stroke strong and even. The water resistance was real, the sun on my neck was real, the stinging in my muscles was very, very real. No simulations here. Thank goodness.

I thought about my dad, who was always muttering about 'the gig economy' and how 'nobody owned anything anymore, just rented access'. He'd spend hours on his data-pad, trying to figure out how to 'optimise his passive income streams'. It all sounded so complicated. I just wanted to win this race, or at least not capsize. Was 'optimising a passive income stream' harder than paddling a canoe for three kilometres? Probably, because I saw a lot more adults looking stressed about it than I saw kids stressed about a canoe race, even Samuel. And they didn't even get cool medals. Just, I dunno, 'digital assets'?

An Unseen Current

We hit the bend near the old fishing buoy, the notorious 'Widow's Corner'. The water here was choppier, stirred by some unseen current or perhaps just the accumulated wakes of all the other boats. The Wanderer bucked, threatening to veer off course. Samuel, startled, let out a dramatic gasp, momentarily losing his rhythm.

"Steady, Samuel, steady! Dig deep!" I yelled, my voice cracking slightly. My arms were screaming. We needed to keep the bow pointed. If we missed the line, we’d add precious metres, and probably embarrass ourselves completely. The thought of Liam and Chloe, perfectly gliding around the corner, fuelled a fresh surge of adrenaline. No polite pity for us today.

My mind, despite the urgency, still drifted to peculiar observations. The camp counsellors, all university students, were constantly talking about 'sustainable living' and 'carbon footprints'. Yet, the camp still used a petrol-powered boat for emergencies, and our breakfast was usually processed oat bars wrapped in non-recyclable plastic. It was a funny contradiction. Like adults knew what was right, but also couldn't quite stop doing what was easy. Was that the secret to 2025, then? A lot of knowing and a lot of not-doing?

"The current! It conspires against us, Lenny!" Samuel cried, paddling furiously but a little wildly, sending water splashing onto my face. I blinked, tasting the slightly metallic lake water. It felt cool, despite the increasing warmth of the sun.

"Just paddle, Samuel! Straight! Like you’re drawing a straight line through the water!" I commanded. My own strokes were becoming less powerful, more frantic. My entire upper body ached. The sun, now higher, beat down on us. Sweat trickled down my temples, stinging my eyes.

I noticed a small, bright green plastic bottle bobbing near the shore, caught in some reeds. Probably fallen out of someone’s dataviewer sling. Little plastic ghosts of modern life, even here. People were always saying 'Reduce, Reuse, Recycle,' but the truth was, things just accumulated. Everywhere. Virtual stuff, real stuff. It all just piled up. That’s what 2025 felt like sometimes: a giant pile.

The effort of keeping the canoe straight, of matching Samuel’s slightly erratic, yet powerful, strokes, was immense. We were slowly, painstakingly, correcting our trajectory. Ahead, Liam and Chloe were already a good distance away, looking like they were barely breaking a sweat. Annoying. So, so annoying. But I couldn’t dwell on them. It was about our boat, our effort, our watery journey.

My back felt stiff, my hands were starting to blister, and my lungs burned. This was actual, physical difficulty. No 'haptic feedback' could replicate this. No 'virtual reality immersion' could make your muscles scream like this. This was gloriously, miserably analog. This was real. And in 2025, sometimes, real felt very rare and very precious.

The Edge of Exhaustion

We were nearing the final stretch, the long, straight run towards the floating finish line. My vision was a bit blurry from sweat, and the cheering from the shore was a distant, muffled hum. Samuel, astonishingly, had found a new reserve of dramatic energy. He was grunting with each stroke, his face red, his hair plastered to his forehead.

"The finish! I perceive it, Lenny! A beacon of victory!" he gasped, pointing a shaky paddle towards the orange buoy that marked the end. "We must summon the last vestiges of our strength! For honour! For glory! For... for the snack bar!"

The snack bar. That was it. That was the real motivation. Warm, slightly soggy fries, perhaps a sugary, fizzy drink. Suddenly, the ache in my muscles felt less like pain and more like a sign of impending reward. I dug my paddle in, pulling with everything I had left. Samuel, spurred by the promise of carbohydrates, mirrored my effort. Our strokes, for the first time in a while, fell into a powerful, desperate synchronicity. The Wanderer surged forward, propelled by two exhausted, slightly ridiculous children.

We crossed the line, not first, not second, but a respectable fourth. The relief was immediate and overwhelming. We drifted past the buoys, our paddles resting on our laps, our chests heaving. The cheering receded. The lake was still. The sun, now fully overhead, glittered on the water, turning it into a sheet of fragmented light. I watched a lone dragonfly hover near the surface, its wings iridescent in the sun, oblivious to the race, to the year 2025, to the dataviewers, and the gig economy. It just flew, existing. And for a moment, just sitting there, drifting, completely exhausted, with the faint taste of lake water still on my lips and the sun warm on my face, I felt a quiet, profound connection to that simple, unburdened existence.

The wind shifted, bringing the faint, delicious smell of frying potatoes from the camp kitchen. The world, for all its bewildering complexity and relentless digital hum, had its simple, undeniable rewards.

I felt Samuel slump against my back, his dramatic energy finally spent. "We... we did not triumph, Lenny," he mumbled, his voice devoid of its usual theatre. "But we... persevered."

"Yeah," I said, a small smile playing on my lips. "We persevered. And the snack bar still awaits."

The canoe bobbed gently, carrying two tired boys and a thousand jumbled thoughts, away from the finish line and towards the shore, towards the promise of hot food and a moment of quiet peace.

That, I thought, was enough for now. More than enough.