The Circle

at the waterline, struggling to move that strange ice-cream-spoon
     paddle. The constant twisting looked painful, and the pace seemed far too slow. But
     then she’d tried it, with Mercer, using not professional-grade models but something
     more basic, the kind the rider sits on top of, legs and feet exposed. They’d paddled
     around the bay, moving far quicker than she’d expected, and they’d seen harbor seals,
     and pelicans, and Mae was convinced this was a criminally underappreciated sport,
     and the bay a body of water woefully underused.
    They’d launched from a tiny beach, the outfitter requiring no training or equipment
     or fuss; you just paid your fifteen dollars an hour and in minutes were on the bay,
     cold and clear.
    Today, she pulled off the highway and made her way to the beach, and there she found
     the water placid, glassine.
    “Hey you,” said a voice.
    Mae turned to find an older woman, bowlegged and frizzy-haired. This was Marion, owner
     of Maiden’s Voyages. She was the maiden, and had been for fifteen years, since she’d
     opened the business, after striking it rich in stationery. She’d told Mae this during
     her first rental, and told everyone this story, which Marion assumed was amusing,
     that she’d made money selling stationery and opened a kayak and paddle-board rental
     operation. Why Marion thought this was funnyMae never knew. But Marion was warm and accommodating, even when Mae was asking to
     take out a kayak a few hours before closing, as she was this day.
    “Gorgeous out there,” Marion said. “Just don’t go far.”
    Marion helped her pull the kayak across the sand and rocks and into the tiny waves.
     She clicked on Mae’s life preserver. “And remember, don’t bother any of the houseboat
     people. Their living rooms are at your eye level, so no snooping. You want footies
     or a windbreaker today?” she asked. “Might get choppy.”
    Mae declined and got into the kayak, barefoot and wearing the cardigan and jeans she
     wore to brunch. In seconds she had paddled beyond the fishing boats, past the breakers
     and paddle-boarders and was in the open water of the bay.
    She saw no one. That this body of water was so seldom used had confounded her for
     months. There were no jetskis here. Few casual fishermen, no waterskiers, the occasional
     motorboat. There were sailboats, but not nearly as many as one would expect. The frigid
     water was only part of it. Maybe there were simply too many other things to do outdoors
     in Northern California? It was mysterious, but Mae had no complaint. It left more
     water to her.
    She paddled into the belly of the bay. The water did indeed get choppier, and cold
     water washed over her feet. It felt good, so good she reached her hand down and scooped
     a handful and drenched her face and the back of her neck. When she opened her eyes
     she saw a harbor seal, twenty feet in front of her, staring at her as would a calm
     dog whose yard she’d walked into. His head was rounded, grey, with the glossy sheen
     of polished marble.
    She kept her paddle on her lap, watching the seal as it watchedher. Its eyes were black buttons, unreflective. She didn’t move, and the seal didn’t
     move. They were locked in mutual regard, and the moment, the way it stretched and
     luxuriated in itself, asked for continuation. Why move?
    A gust of wind came her way, and with it the pungent smell of the seal. She had noticed
     this the last time she had kayaked, the strong smell of these animals, a cross between
     tuna and unwashed dog. It was better to be upwind. As if suddenly embarrassed, the
     seal ducked underwater.
    Mae continued on, away from shore. She set a goal to make it to a red buoy she spotted,
     near the bend of a peninsula, deep in the bay. Getting to it would take thirty minutes
     or so, and en route, she would pass a few dozen anchored barges and sailboats. Many
     had been made into homes of one kind or another, and she knew not to look into the
     windows, but she couldn’t help it; there were mysteries aboard. Why was there a motorcycle
     on this barge? Why a Confederate flag on that yacht? Far off, she saw a seaplane circling.
    The wind picked up behind her, sending her quickly past the red buoy and closer to
     the farther shore. She hadn’t planned to land there, and had never made it across
     the bay, but soon it was in sight and coming quickly upon her, eelgrass visible beneath
     her as the water went shallow.
    She jumped out of