Pegasus is on the lake about the same time as her namesake, the constellation, is in the sky. She is a twenty six foot launch, now with an electric motor. At slow speeds she is silent; faster, still quiet. The lake reveals itself through the lapping of water against the hull, through the breeze with its distinctive scents and feel against your face, through the sounds of wind in nearby trees and from more distant waves, and from the occasional disjointed chorus of loons, gulls and other birds. Slowing, one can study a loon cleaning its feathers and then disappearing in a sudden dive, the cormorant hanging its wings to dry, the eagle menacing with too low a flight. The sky reveals the silent dance of the clouds in a rhythm and speed different from yours. Other boats intrude but at dusk there are few, and, at a distance, they, too, are quiet. With the lake so present, conversation in the boat can be sporadic—a warm episode of exchange followed by silent reflection and warm exchange with the lake.
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