The inlet water of the Chesapeake was held at a clarity, degrees before freezing. It could not, would not harden into a floor. Its bully in the Atlantic threw punches along the coastline. Our father demanded we paddle along the lake on New Year’s Day. My brother pushed into his kayak before us with a feigned excitement. At least my knees could see the sky, untucked in a canoe. His legs were tight in the boat’s pocket. Play is rarely a unanimous kind of fun. The bow of my brother’s boat hit ours. Once was all it took. We tipped over until my father and I were submerged. I knew the game turned sour as my lips came up for air, puckering from the salt laying sediment against my face. He, my brother, jumped in. I was heavy in winter clothing. Hypothermia begins with a fault in the bones. The inlet sought to shatter, but in truth it sought to snap off what it held hostage. Our father swam towards shore, not a word to us, not a promise for help, just his back to his children, the tips of his fingers seeking the plush of deadened grass.