Swimming The Channel by Sally Friedman
When we arrived that morning the lake was as still as death, shrouded in the slightest promise of fog. The water had the dark opacity of disaster, of depths not meant to be tested. Floating apprehensively through a hazy dream, I left Paul to take of the basics, such as putting the canoe in the water. Silence prevailed, so that when the boat slid along the floor of the truck bed the noise jarred. I stepped out of my sandals, hitched my sweatpants above my ankles, and walked reluctantly down the boat launch, gasping as the water pierced my feet. It was as if it was solid and sharp, as if it were still the ice it had been but a few short weeks before.