"You better rub on some more sunscreen, Gwyn," Daddy muttered. He tossed the bottle at my five-year-old self and started lathering another white glob into his blue-veined skin. I was redheaded, light-eyed, and hopelessly freckled just like he was. The sun would crook its rays into sinister claws and scoop both of us into its fiery mouth within minutes if we didn't slather ourselves in gallons of sun goop. Pale people have to be pro-active about protecting their complexions.

My father inspected his arms, worked the excess sunscreen into his elbows, and then glanced at me. "Put some on your ears."

"Yes, Daddy." I placed a dot on each ear.

"No, Gwyn," my father said, smiling. "You'll need more than that." He knelt before me and squirted a puddle of sunscreen into his fingers and then massaged my little ears until they tickled. "Perfect. No skin burn for you." I nodded, like I always did when words were unnecessary.

After we both contained enough sunscreen on our bodies to deter the ultraviolet radiation of sixteen solar systems, Daddy pulled a lifejacket over my head, and adjusted the straps to fit around my tiny torso. He squeezed into lifejacket a size too small for him that he bought before he even became a parent. Then he plopped hats onto both of our heads.

"Now," he said, "We're ready to go."

I nodded my famous nod and seized my paddle. I filled my lungs with the stench of sunscreen and decaying organic matter---maybe abandoned fish left to die on the beach. Daddy leaned over to hold the canoe steady as I hopped in and slowly pushed the boat off slightly into the water. He got in, shaking the canoe back and forth and making me whimper to the point of nearly squeaking.

"Gwyn, sweetie, you're not going to fall," he whispered. "I won't let you."

The sound of his steady voice tamed the mouse-like sounds emerging from my throat and I beamed from my heart to my mouth. My father would never let anything happen to me. I knew it from the first time he splattered me with sunscreen. I handed him my paddle and he started to row away from the shore onto the green river waves, with no complaints---not even a grunt.

Mallards, the occasional goose, and the even more rare swan sat upon the water, lurching to and fro with the movement of the stubborn tide. The birds ruffled their feathers and called their mates or friends every so often, but for the most part, they let the river live for them. They were merely appendages of the aquatic beast that breathed beneath of them. Daddy stirred up the beast's skin with each paddle stroke and yet the beast did nothing to object. My father had tamed the river years ago.

After we had gone a couple hundred yards from the shore, Daddy pointed out a rock pile on the opposite beach.

"Who do you think put those rocks there, Gwyn?"

I paused for a moment and piped up, "God, Daddy."

"Who?"

"God," I repeated.

"Why do you think that?"

"Because God's an artist, Daddy."

Daddy grinned and said, "Of course, baby."

And a fat fish flew into the air before us and then returned to the river with a less than modest splash, emitting ripple after ripple in all directions.