With my expertly repaired skeg I turned Namsos’s corner and headed north through a narrow fjord into an archipelagic inland sea. The headwind was chilly and brutal. The current dropped my speed to glacial.
At the end of the even narrower outlet fjord,, a kayaking couple, friends of those I had stayed with last night, waited for me.
I passed a marina. I could stop, but it wasn’t that much farther to hospitality. I pushed on, one inch at a time. With every stroke I wondered just how much easier it would be to go back to that marina. I kept turning around to measure how little I had accomplished since the last time I checked five seconds earlier.
By the time I turned my boat around I had a kilometer to paddle back, and from the middle of the channel with waves wind and current at my stern I flew.
While the small single docked marina did not have a shower, I found and appropriated a hose. A small wooden club house with three walls sheltering cushioned outdoor furniture sat at the head of the dock. There was even a curtain to pull across the opening.
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