Skewed to the flow—this flowing all so vast that vaunted science know only its smallest mismatched particles, my boat beats crossways toward the other shore, its shivering helmsman feeling through bare feet the two-way tug toward that distant there and the nearer massive pull of the already thundering falls whose mist makes rainbows even as it obscures whatever distant view is mine. Why tire myself yet again with the difficult climb to the crow’s nest? To see is not to be, and further faster rowing doesn’t make it so. Beware only ever of bumptious shouts of land-ho from any quarter. Abiding the twin tides, step back, step back, wisely, from the seductive wheel and consider the billions of keel-hauled who’ve gone before ye, matey.